In Love and War
by PanDaimonia
Summary: Snape is attracted to Hermione, but he has sworn he would never act on his feelings. A chain of events involving Remus and Hermione may shake his convictions...and all three will find themselves places where they never imagined being.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: First, the obligatory disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They are a product of the fabulous mind of J.K. Rowling. She deserves all the glory and money. I'm not making any profit off her characters, though I wouldn't mind a little glory in the form of REVIEWS (hint hint) or recommendations. I'd also like to thank my betas, Becky and Alison, and share the fame (or infamy) with them. This story is a response to the "But I Saw Her First" challenge on the yahoo group "When I Kissed The Teacher." Now, I'll pipe down and get on to the story.

A change was in the air and it wasn't just the scent of pine needles that was aggravating Severus Snape's allergies. Before he knew it the last day of school had arrived, and with it the infernal hustling and bustling of Christmas cheer. Even students who felt themselves to be in the depths of final exams and term papers were reveling in anticipation of the holidays. As usual, Snape was not looking forward to the festivities in the least. "Christmas 'cheer' indeed. False high spirits is more like it," he grumbled under his breath. Everyone was going merrily about their business, while somewhere out there Voldemort was waiting... _Am I the only one who sees it?_ he thought to himself.

A cold gust of wind slammed the office door shut and blew a stack of corrected seventh year Potions exams to the floor. Snape scowled as he knelt to pick them up, frowning especially at the "105%" written in a pinched hand across Hermione Granger's exam. He'd been so certain that no one would get the extra credit question, but he hadn't reckoned with the one student who would actually _read_ the potions textbook cover to cover, including the footnotes in Appendix 3. Some teachers might have been pleased that one of their students showed such dedication, but couldn't it be anyone besides Hermione Granger?  
  
No, not even the usual liberal application of red Correcting Quill on a pile of especially hopeless first year exams could rouse him from this gloom. He had to face it: his mood did not stem from the impending holiday season complete with all its foolish rigmarole, nor from inept yet blindly optimistic students wasting his precious time, though it did relate to a certain student. A certain bushy-haired, formerly toothy, know-it-all of a student. A certain student who had just gotten 105% on her final exam of the term. A certain student who had walked into the potions classroom at the beginning of her seventh year with something akin to poise and maturity, not to mention a definite swing in her hips. It was a fact that students changed, but to have Hermione Granger walk into his room transformed into _that_ was not what he had expected.  
  
_Was she so changed, or have you just been blind all these years?_ he asked himself—a question he didn't want to think about. There was no doubt she was growing up. He had been forced to chaperone the last trip to Hogsmeade (McGonagall had caught two Slytherins in a rather compromising position on the last trip, and declared that since the two offenders were in his house, it was only fair to give him this duty) and on the way he couldn't help but notice Hermione Granger and her red woolen dress, which left entirely too little to the imagination for his own good. Since then, she had been cropping up in his thoughts more frequently than he would care to admit. And the damnable thing was that she appeared to have no idea of the effect she was having on certain segments of the male population. At the very least, he thanked whatever powers that be that Hermione hadn't transformed into one of those anatomically impossible models of women that Muggles seemed to hold dear. Last he had seen her proportions seemed to be well within the physical range of a normal human being. Yes, she was attractive, but in a...wholesome way. _Falling for the witch next door, are you? There must be something in Muggle psychology about cases like this_. Snape shook his head in disgust.  
  
He supposed it was only natural to be attracted to her. It was perfectly normal to desire an attractive adolescent of the opposite sex. Such things were only human—one thing he had always had difficulty accepting about himself. Of course nothing would come of this attraction. This was one young witch that was off-limits no matter how he looked at it. Even if she was mature for her age she was still hardly more than a child, no matter what signals his body was sending him. He would never abuse his position of authority in this way (intimidating students was another matter, naturally) or exercise the power that being her instructor gave him. _You fool, you're acting as if she would throw herself at your feet. She would never even look twice at a man your age, let alone think of you as a...well, never mind._ Hermione Granger would never have the slightest idea that her Potions professor sat in his office and had carnal thoughts about her while he should have been correcting exams.  
  
With such thoughts on his mind, Snape hardly heard the soft but insistent knock on his door. "Yes?" he snapped, more out of habit then out of genuine annoyance.  
  
The door creaked open, and a face peeked in hesitantly. "Professor Snape? Sorry to bother you, but Dumbledore wanted to make sure you know it's time to leave."  
  
By Merlin, it was Hermione Granger, as surely as if his thoughts had summoned her. She didn't look directly at him, but rather stood in the doorway and stared at her feet as she scuffed her toes against the floor, looking more than a little unhappy to be there. She coughed once, and then again slightly louder, and Snape realized he was looking a bit too intently in her direction. "I really am very sorry, but Dumbledore sent me to tell you that the carriages have left already, and to remember that there's a Portkey for us that won't wait all day."  
  
Snape found he was feeling especially irritated at her usual reluctance at being in his presence, and there wasn't any harm in playing his cantankerousness up a bit. She would think something was wrong if he was too civil toward her. "I'm certain the Headmaster had the best of intentions in attempting to find a _competent_ student to convey me the message, but I assure you I am capable of keeping track of the time without a reminder."  
  
"Of course, Professor Snape. That would be why the rest of the members of the Order are waiting for you on the school grounds." Hermione spoke acidly enough, but he detected a quick sideways glance at him afterward, gauging his reaction.  
  
"I would advise you to have a bit more caution with the names you bandy about, Miss Granger. You may feel perfectly safe at Hogwarts, and more than ready to toss around information that _certain_ people would find very useful, but I would warrant that I know more about such subjects than you do, and suggest that for once in your life, you should curb that tongue of yours." _The last barb might not have been altogether necessary, but what else can I do to keep up appearances?_ he thought. Hermione likely wouldn't find any of his words more harsh than usual.  
  
"If you mean having more _personal_ knowledge of Voldemort and his followers, don't worry, I'm sure _that _distinction will go to you."  
  
"That's right." For the first time, their eyes connected, and Hermione stared at him as if daring him to look away first. Snape felt torn between genuine exasperation with a hint of anger, and an urge to laugh at the mulish look on her face. He bit at his lip and glanced away before beginning to speak. In response, he was a gleam of satisfaction in Hermione's eyes. _This is all fine. Let her feel that she's in the lead._ "I think you've gotten your point across, Miss Granger. If you're quite satisfied, why don't you go back to Dumbledore and tell him I'll be along shortly."  
  
Hermione lifted her chin, the same steel in her eyes. "People are waiting, and Dumbledore sent me to get you. I'm not going back alone."  
  
"Oh." _Bad move Severus. That sounded very...milquetoast_. "Very well, I shall be along shortly. You may wait in the hall if you so insist."  
  
"I do, and I will." With that, she turned and walked out of the room. She did not, as he had expected, slam the door, but closed it with the utmost control. It wasn't every day a student really stood up to him, and it looked as if Hermione Granger was going for the record. _So_, he thought. _This was how it would be.  
_  
Snape went through the motions of gathering up his things, making the appropriate rustling and thumping sounds, though he had little to do. He was only delinquent in grading his exams and keeping track of time, his things were already packed and piled tidily by the door.  
  
He wondered if Hermione would be gone, but either to his dismay or to his pleasure (he wasn't sure which) she was still there when he emerged with his baggage, including a satchel with the inescapable exams. They did not speak; she led the way automatically, striding purposefully through the halls without looking back. Weighed down by his luggage, Snape lagged behind, keeping one eye on the bouncing curls bobbing in and out of his line of sight.  
  
He was embarrassed to discover he was wheezing and panting slightly as he carried his bags down the steps onto the grounds. It was getting dark outside already, and Hermione was getting farther ahead, but he would be damned if he asked her to slow down. As if she could hear his thoughts, she glanced back over her shoulder and called out, "Are you managing back there, Professor? Do you need some help?"  
  
Before Snape could finish his protestations ("No, _thank you,_ I'm fine really"), Hermione had managed to get several of his bags out of his arms and was in the lead again, practically skipping towards the group standing outside Hagrid's hut. Snape was gritting his teeth at the indignity of the situation—appearing in front of his colleagues half-winded, looking as if he had needed assistance from a student, and a smug Gryffindor at that.  
  
"Here he is. I found him in his office, grading papers," Hermione chirped, in what Snape felt was a distinctly gleeful tone.  
  
Dumbledore chuckled. "Still hard at work, Severus? It sounds as if you deserve a much-needed holiday."  
  
"Oh, well, I..." Snape paused as he saw Hermione deposit his bags rather hastily, and hurry to join Ron and Harry. "Careful! There's delicate equipment there. I don't expect you to understand how it works, but I might ask that you handle it with—"  
  
"Oh, look at the time," Dumbledore said suddenly. "Departure coming up. Everyone gather round..." He produced a round plastic object from under his robe. "It's a Muggle object. They call it a Frisbee I believe. All right now, everybody grab hold."  
  
Snape shuffled forward with his luggage under his arms and took a finger hold of the Muggle object. He supposed everyone else had had their luggage taken care of ahead of time but he had forgotten. _Due to certain...distractions, perhaps? Never mind, no one's going to harass you about a little matter like this. Dumbledore's speaking now, better pay attention so nothing else goes wrong.  
_  
"Everyone have a firm grip on the Portkey now?" Dumbledore was asking.  
  
"I dunno 'bout Severus there," boomed Hagrid. "'E an' his luggage are barely holding on by a fingernail. Dunno what 'e's got hiding in all those bags."  
  
"Fine," Snape hissed. He slid his hand forward slightly—just enough to collide with Hermione's much smaller one. There was a pause before she withdrew her hand, long enough for Snape to feel a surge of something run through his body. He twitched slightly and closed his eyes, relaxing slightly as the world faded to black. _It's only a hand. A small, warm hand. A _child's_ hand, Severus._  
  
And then there was Dumbledore's voice saying, "On the count of three: one, two, THREE," and the familiar tugging feeling took over. The world was no longer sharp, but flying by in great smears like running paint, followed by the usual jarring sensation as they came to a halt. They stood before two shabby Muggle houses, but no, not two anymore. A third house had appeared between them, puffing up like an inflatable raft. The door opened and out stepped Lupin, looking tired and wan.  
  
"Come inside," he said. "I've got news for you." 


	2. Chapter 2

"News, Remus?" McGonagall paled slightly. "Not about...oh, I do hope..."  
  
"Let me guess," said Snape. "Bad news?"  
  
The cold was already eating through Snape's suddenly thin-seeming black robes, and he could feel a foul mood beginning to take hold. Seeing Lupin's face, even if he looked as care-worn as he did at the moment, could always take a perfectly fine day and send it south. This was by no means a perfectly fine day, so at the moment Snape found he did not care one iota if something bad had happened to Lupin. Even if he were in the best mood of his life, he doubted he could find much sympathy for Remus Lupin. As usual, he was certain that any news was bad news, but if it only threatened Lupin, so much the better, though he very much doubted that this was the case.  
  
Dumbledore held up one hand. "Patience everybody. I can only speak for myself, but I don't think standing out in the cold will us any good. I'm we all will feel better if we go inside, sit down, and have a bite to eat. Perhaps you should put some water on, Remus."  
  
"You're right Albus. Please, why don't you all come in?"  
  
They filed into the hallway, blinking as their eyes slowly adjusted to the light. Lupin sighed and rubbed at his forehead, and Snape couldn't help but glower as he noticed the worried expression that instantly came to Hermione's face. _Naturally he would be her favorite professor. He's probably playing up a little headache and she's all sympathy. I on the other hand could be lying on the floor bleeding and she wouldn't so much as glance in my direction._ All right, that wasn't fair, but since when was he fair?  
  
Lupin was now apologizing as he hurried to set the table. "I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking... Here, have a seat, have a seat. Oh, I made tea already, and I—"  
  
Tonks emerged from the kitchen, slightly flushed and not quite as cheerful as usual. "Oh, hello! Look, I even opened up a tin of biscuits ahead of time. I think I'm becoming quite the cook, eh?" She gave a little laugh that instantly grated on Snape's nerves.  
  
"Good, good. Shall we then?" Dumbledore was his usual self: composed, cheerful, and unflappable. Mad-Eye Moody on the other hand sat at the table, appearing, if anything, more serious than ever.  
  
Snape decided that it wasn't only him; Tonks' laugh seemed forced and lacking any real joy. _Definitely bad news then_, he thought.  
  
In fact, a desolate pallor seemed to hang over the whole house, more so than just the ever-present combination of gloom and grime. Snape considered himself a connoisseur of bleak moods, and the one he was heading towards certainly wasn't going to be improved by a cup of lukewarm weak tea and a stale biscuit. _Maybe a cup of something truly hot and alcoholic would do the trick, but not anything in this grubby place_. Unbidden, a scene came into his mind. He was sitting in an armchair in front of a fireplace, a warm fire crackling away, and Hermione Granger curled up on the floor at his feet, reading. Or sitting next to him, or perhaps even sitting in his lap... No, no, no. That was one place his mind was not going right now. He snuck a quick guilty peak at Hermione, who was busy slapping Ron's hand away from her plate and most definitely not looking in his direction.  
  
"Would you like sugar? Milk? Lemon?" said Tonks, hovering at his elbow hopefully.  
  
"No thank you," Snape replied, frowning at the tray in her hand.  
  
"Oh all right," she said, rather disappointed.  
  
"Don't mind Severus," said Lupin. "He never eats here. Evidently he finds it too offensive to his sophisticated tastes."  
  
"I see," said Tonks, sounding as if she did not see at all. "Well, your loss I suppose." As she turned to leave, she stumbled and lurched in Snape's direction. "Oh oops...sorry. Sorry! It was an accident, how clumsy of me. Oh, you know how I am..."  
  
Tonks face flushed red as the contents of the cream pitcher slowly ran down the front of Snape's robe and spread across his lap in a large damp spot. She continued to stammer apologies as he pulled out his wand and muttered a drying spell with a great sigh. After Tonks had finally quieted down and taken a seat next to Lupin, Snape saw that Hermione was looking at him curiously. He felt his face beginning to turn red and he scowled in her direction. She looked away immediately and did not glance back for the remainder of the meal.  
  
After the cups of tea were drained Lupin began to speak. "I'm sorry everyone can't be here right now. We decided that it's too dangerous for us to all meet in the same place at the same time. We're sticking to small groups. In fact, I wouldn't have called you here now if I didn't feel it was necessary. I didn't feel safe sending owls, so I suppose this will have to do." Tonks fidgeted in her chair and Lupin gave a slight nod in her direction. "Thanks to her...family connections," (Tonks grimaced) "a possibly problematic matter has been brought to our attention. I'll let her tell you the full story."  
  
Tonks blushed a little now that she had everyone's attention. "Well, it just so happens that my mother got a letter from her dear sister. You know, one of the ones she hasn't spoken to in years, Narcissa Malfoy. Apparently my lovely aunt wrote a letter about how 'Blood is thicker than water' and 'past mistakes should be forgiven'—she didn't say whose mistakes, but I'm pretty sure she isn't talking about herself—and 'family of all people should bury the hatchet and move on'. And at the end she just happened to ask for a loan. Just until she gets back on her feet, but what with Lucius 'unfairly' in prison and the trials and court fees and the cost of a decent solicitor these days..."  
  
"You mean she hasn't been able to find enough stuff to sell off?" asked Ron. "Dad always said that the Malfoys must have loads of illegal things hidden in their house..."  
  
"Hold on a sec. Who's telling the story?" Tonks said. "Anyway, a few days later, Narcissa owled my mum again and said she didn't need the loan anymore. According to her, she and her solicitor had been going through some documents and found a copy of the last will and testament of Mr. and Mrs. Black. Funnily enough, it turned out there was something they had missed before. Upon the death of the Blacks, their house would pass to the next deserving relative, who in this case happens to be Narcissa. Lucky for us, she seemed to enjoy rubbing the whole thing in Mum's face so much it didn't cross her mind not to spread the news. And well, that's the story."  
  
The room went silent for a moment. Dumbledore looked as calm as ever, Ron looked confused, Harry was frowning, and Hermione appeared to be thinking.  
  
"But 12 Grimmauld Place is unplottable, and then there's the Fidelius Charm," said Hermione. "It's simply not possible for them to find it...is it?"  
  
"I just don't know," Lupin said. "It doesn't seem that way, but I don't know if we can rest easy quite yet."  
  
"Well of course we're not going to rest easy, lad!" Mad-Eye Moody spluttered. "We'd be a bunch of half-wits if we weren't worried right now."  
  
"All right, Alastor," said McGonagall. "I think that's enough for now. Perhaps we should retire to our rooms." She shot a meaningful look in Harry, Ron, and Hermione's direction.  
  
"Agreed. That's enough for one day," said Lupin. In fact, he looked as if it might have been too much. Snape did some quick calculations in his head, and realized the full moon was tonight. _Well, isn't this wonderful timing we have._  
  
"If that's final, I had best be off. I have some business to attend to," he said.  
  
"Not your exams, I should hope," McGonagall said. "I finished those ages ago. Not a hard task, believe me. Why in my day, we didn't even _have_ Correcting Quills. You young teachers are so spoiled today, you wouldn't believe it."  
  
"Right. As I said, I'm off now." Snape stood up, ready to leave the room as quickly as possible without apparating upstairs, when a voice from behind him stopped him abruptly.  
  
"Professor, you wouldn't have happened to correct my exam yet, would you?" He turned around to face a large pair of rather imploring brown eyes. Hermione Granger was talking to him. _Not that she would ever speak to me if it weren't about something like grades_.  
  
"I, er..." He paused, feeling like an utter fool. _To let a pair of big brown eyes get the best of you? You're losing your touch Severus. What would happen if you kept going like this? You'd be a spineless puddle of jelly in no time at all._ Snape drew himself up as tall and straight as possible. "I do not show preferential treatment towards any of my students, Miss Granger. Just because you happen to feel that you've gotten cozy with the Order of the Phoenix is not going to make you teacher's pet. If you're going to grade-grub, I suggest you try elsewhere."  
  
He pivoted on his heel and left, but not quickly enough to miss the whispering that followed, and the not quite whispered comment from Hermione. "I hope you remember that the next time Draco licks your boots...or are you too busy groveling to Lucius Malfoy?"  
  
It took self-control, but he did not look back.

**A/N:** I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'd like to say thanks to all my reviewers. I'm glad you liked the previous chapter, and you really do inspire me to write more quickly. Please continue to read and review!


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione stood in the kitchen door, a feeling of horror spreading through her. _What have I done? What was I thinking? He's probably going to fail me now...granted, it was enjoyable to get a rise out of him, but living with the consequences isn't likely to be much fun_.  
  
"Wicked!" said Ron. "That was great. I wish I could have thought of something like that..."  
  
She did not respond to his words, but continued to stand and stare into space, a new worry coming over her. Who had heard what she said? Had Dumbledore and McGonagall and Lupin all overheard her? _What would they say if they knew?_ _God, that was immature of me_, Hermione thought, feeling a prickling of shame as her face reddened.  
  
"C'mon Hermione," Ron was saying, tugging at her arm to get her attention. "Are you even listening to a word I say? You're not going to stand there gawping like an idiot all day, are you?"  
  
"Uh...of course not. Right, let's go." She walked out of the room quickly, but not too quickly, so it didn't look as if she was trying to escape. _Did you just want to provoke him? That's not like you...is it? But then, what were you thinking, asking about your grade? You should have known he would never tell you...you did know, didn't you? Then why did you do it?_ She shook her head for a moment, feeling confused. _You've been playing this game with him all day! What's come over you?_  
  
"I'm serious. That was a good one, Hermione," Ron said as the three of them walked up the staircase. "I just wish I could have seen the look on his face!" He sighed. "I would have given a whole year's worth of tricks from Fred and George to see that."  
  
"I shouldn't have done it," Hermione said flatly.  
  
"Why not? I'm telling you, it was brilliant. Isn't that right, Harry?"  
  
"What?" Harry had only fallen a little ways behind them, but his voice sounded as if it were coming from a great distance away. In fact, now that Hermione thought about it, he had hardly said anything all day.  
  
"I was saying it was brilliant what Hermione did, don't you think?" Ron said happily, apparently oblivious to Harry's lack of attention.  
  
"Oh, yeah... Sure, brilliant." He continued to stare at a point on the wall somewhere above Ron and Hermione's heads. _Oh no, he's getting like that again_, she thought. I _really should say something to him, and I will. Soon_, she promised._ Soon._  
  
Just as Hermione was beginning to think it would never happen, they reached the door of Ron and Harry's room. "Here we are," Hermione broke in hastily. _Thank God,_ she added mentally. "Maybe you guys can find something to do and I'll just go to my room to rest or something. All right?"  
  
"C'mon, Hermione, you're not really going to go off and sit in your room all by yourself are you? It's the holiday. What are you going to do, ask Snape for extra homework?" Ron said, chuckling at this as he reached a hand out to tug on a stray curl of hair that had managed to work its way out of Hermione's ponytail.  
  
Hermione disentangled her hair from his hand. "Stop it Ron. It's not funny. With my luck, I'll never be able to face him again. He'll probably hex me for life. I think I crossed the line back there."  
  
"Herm—" he began, but she cut him off.  
  
"You know what, let's just forget it, okay? I don't feel like talking about it right now. I regret it enough as it is."  
  
"I think it's something you should be proud of. I'm telling you, it was hilarious. It was even better than the time you slapped Draco!"  
  
"No it wasn't. It was stupid of me. I don't know what I was thinking. It just sort of...popped out of my mouth."  
  
Ron leaned over and said into her ear, "Maybe you should let things just pop out more often." He laughed at this, and gave Hermione a quick squeeze around the shoulder. His arm started to slide down around her waist, but she shrugged it off and slipped away from him. _Please Ron, not right now, she thought. Do I have to deal with you too? Oops...that came out sounding worse than I meant it. I'm sorry Ron_, she apologized silently, wincing a little. She probably wasn't being fair to him right now, but she felt so tired and irritable she couldn't bring herself to change her behavior.  
  
"Don't be silly Ron. _You_ don't have to worry about it. You don't have potions with him anymore, but I'm stuck with him for the rest of the year."  
  
"So, drop it." He shrugged.  
  
"You know I can't do that, Ron," Hermione said, trying to sound patient, but knowing she was fighting a losing battle. "You might do something like that, but it's not that simple for me. I just—I just couldn't drop a class like that."  
  
"Are you kidding? What about the time you walked out of Trelawney's class? "  
  
"That's _different_," she attempted to explain, not entirely sure why she felt so strongly about not wanting to drop Snape's Potions class. "_She_ was a fraud and the whole thing was a complete waste of time."  
  
"Like Snape's so much better? He's a miserable wanker!" Ron crossed his arms across his chest.  
  
"Don't say that Ron! It's different. For one, he actually has something to teach us."  
  
"What, are you defending him? He was an ass. He shouldn't be allowed to talk that way to you!" Ron's face was beginning to redden in blotchy patches, and Hermione could barely restrain herself from telling him to stop swinging his arms around wildly.  
  
"Look Ron, I know you're mad at him. I know you don't like him, but I just don't think he's the complete villain you're making him out to be."  
  
"I don't understand you, Hermione! Why are you defending him now?"  
  
"Am I?" she said rather vaguely. "Can we please change the topic? Let's just consider the case closed for now." She noticed that he continued to sulk, so she reached out and gently put one hand on his arm. "Please Ron," she said. "Don't be angry with me."  
  
It worked. He blushed slightly and said, "I'm not angry with you."  
  
_It's awful how easy it is to do that with him these days,_ Hermione thought. It was effective, but it always made her uncomfortable to use her—_What? Feminine wiles?_ She didn't feel right applying such a phrase to herself; she didn't want to be manipulative or coquettish. She had never thought of herself in those kinds of terms, and she didn't want to start now. _You've never been a bat your eyelashes kind of girl, but you have to admit that it might have its purposes from time to time...  
_  
"Anyway," she said. "Let's do something then. Why don't you and Harry play chess or Exploding Snap or something?"  
  
"Right," Ron agreed. "Chess is fine. I'll set up the board."  
  
He made good on his word, and he and Harry sat down on the floor to play. As Hermione had hoped, they virtually ignored her. She sat on the bed and did the crossword puzzle in a few days old edition of _The Daily Prophet_ that she'd found in her tote bag, glancing up every now and then when there was a lull in the game.  
  
"Oh look," she mused aloud. "The headline is 'Cornelius Fudge to make goodwill visit to Azkaban prison.' It says in the article 'In an attempt to reassure the Wizarding World of its safety, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge will be giving a speech and press conference on the grounds of Azkaban prison. Though he has agreed to discuss the capture of—"  
  
"Stop it. I don't want to hear anymore," Harry said. His behavior was beginning to truly bother Hermione, but she didn't want to make a point of it. He was so tense that she decided she would let someone off lightly for the first time today.  
  
"All right," she said, and folded up the paper quickly. "Sorry." She didn't get any response. Harry continued to frown at the game board without moving or even blinking, his hand hovering over his one remaining knight. His fingers closed around the piece, but he didn't so much as shift it.  
  
"It's your turn, Harry," Ron said quietly—perhaps even gently, for him.  
  
"I know that," Harry snapped. "I don't want to play anymore." He pushed the chess set away from him roughly, knocking over the pieces, which cried out in protest. He stood up as if he were going to leave, but hesitated, still clutching the knight in his hand.  
  
"Ay, put me down, put me down!" the knight squeaked from inside his fist. "You're holding me too tight, you young rascal!"  
  
"Sit back down, Harry," Hermione said, with an edge creeping into her voice against her will. "Let's just change the subject."  
  
"Right," Ron said, looking a little unsure. "Well then...what do you think about this business with the house? It's not fair, is it? Seems like a ruddy deal for Lupin, don't you think?"  
  
"I know. I just wonder if there's anything we could do to help..." Hermione's face slipped easily into a thoughtful expression, her mind already whirring away, busily turning out and discarding ideas.  
  
"Not likely," Harry said with a snort. "They'll just say we're kids and what could we know anyway, now why don't you go and play with your toys and suck on a lolly like good little boys and girls?"  
  
"Harry, you're not being fair to them. They just want to protect us."  
  
"Protect us. _Protect us_. Oh, that's rich, Hermione. You know what happened when they tried to protect me before? Sirius _died_. Because of them, he's dead."  
  
"That's not true Harry. You know that, it's just right now you can't see that."  
  
"Shut up, Hermione," he growled, his fingers tightening around the complaining knight until his knuckles turned white.  
  
"Harry, that's not—"  
  
"I don't want to hear it! I'm tired of everybody treating me like this. I'm not a baby!" Conflict seemed to play across his face, and in a culmination of whatever inner struggle he was experiencing he threw the knight across the room. It hit the bedstead with a resounding thwack and slid to the floor, crying out the whole time.  
  
"Well you're acting like one right now," Hermione said. She knew she was losing her temper and really ought to bite her tongue right now, but it was too late. "I'm sick and tired of the fact that you get away with _everything_ because you're poor, tragic, traumatized Harry. I'm sick of the fact that you walk around like the textbook illustration of teen angst and get angry when people treat you like that. Everyone's going easy on you, Harry, and you act like they're all picking on you. Grow up!"  
  
"You don't understand," he said, his voice going utterly cold. "Nobody really cares, do they? You pretend to, but you really don't. Nobody cared when Sirius died. It was a pity, wasn't it, but no great loss. Now it's just a little inconvenience because they might lose his house. They used him. You don't get it, do you, Hermione? _They used him_." He had now swung from cold to emotional; his voice trembled slightly, and if Hermione looked closely, she almost saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. She was contemplating apologizing, but the look of cold rage he fixed her with drove the impulse from her mind, and her sharp tongue took over.  
  
"You know what, there's no reasoning with you right now. Fine, have it your way. If you want to be angry about everything under the sun, suit yourself. I can't stand to be around you right now. I'm leaving." Hermione grabbed her tote back and slung it on to her shoulder.  
  
"Go ahead. You think I'm going to beg you to stick around, Miss High and Mighty Know-it-all?"  
  
Ron glanced back and forth between them, but said nothing. Hermione faced him. "Fine, just sit there, will you?" she spat at him as she left. "You're a coward, that's what you are."  
  
Hermione stomped out of the room, not paying any attention to the door behind her. She half ran down the hall, blind with a combination of anger and the tears that were filling her eyes. She stumbled into her room too angry to bother flipping on the light, sat down on her bed, and began to cry in earnest. Groping around in the darkness, she finally found a pillow and a blanket and was able to curl up into a little bundle of sheer misery. _Why does everything seem to be affecting me so much? Ron cares, I know he does, but he doesn't understand. I'm just one of the guys to him, except when he gets some urge to snog me and has no earthly idea how to go about it. It's painful to watch, really. Harry—well, Harry hardly notices anything anymore. He hasn't been the same since Sirius died, everyone knows that, but no one's going to say anything to him about it. He can get away with anything and he has—the temper tantrums, the missed classes, and now this. It's like he's not even here half the time. He's so...numb unless he blows a fuse, and then everyone had better watch out.  
  
And what about you? Convenient, isn't it, how you can focus on someone else's problems completely and forget about your own? Like the fact that you seem to have some urge to spar with Professor Snape at every possible chance that presents itself?_ Perhaps it was better not to go there, she reflected, unsure why her cheeks were suddenly turning red at the thought of her earlier encounters. _Well, my behavior was rather embarrassing. That must be it...what else could it be? It's not as if you've ever been worried about his feelings, assuming he has any.  
_  
Hermione was becoming more confused by the moment. She wasn't entirely sure why she had been behaving so brashly lately. At the time, there had been the sheer rush of defiance—_something you seem to be enjoying entirely too much lately,_ she chastised herself—the pounding of blood in her brain as the words formed on her lips and spilled out before she had time to think. Just look where her new speaking-before-thinking attitude was getting her; she had angered a professor who already disliked her, and she had just alienated her two best friends—for all purposes, her only true friends in the world. Hermione knew she was not the easiest person to get along with in the world. _I should be glad they put up with me in the first place_, she told herself.  
  
And yet, a little voice in her head seemed to whisper smugly, _But you were just telling the truth. They deserved it._  
  
_But is it worth it to never speak to them again?_ the first voice asked.  
  
"Oh, that's exactly what you need," she said aloud. "Little voices in your head." _Well, this has been some day, hasn't it._ She almost laughed through her tears as the absurdity of the situation came over her.  
  
She was sitting on her bed, half laughing and half crying when there was a knock on the door. Hermione felt a surge of irritation. "Not now, Ron. I don't feel like talking."  
  
The door creaked open and without looking Hermione picked up her pillow and lobbed it at the door. "I said not now, Ron!"  
  
"I'm sorry if this is a bad time, but I can assure you that I'm not Mr. Weasley," said a bemused voice.  
  
Hermione turned around quickly. The man in the doorway was most definitely not Ron, but rather her former Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. "Professor—I mean, Lupin..." she stammered in surprise.  
  
"Please call me Remus, Hermione. I'm not your teacher any longer." He smiled and looked as if he were trying to keep himself from laughing. "You seem to have lost something," he said, holding her pillow up.  
  
"Oh. Thank you," Hermione said, taking the pillow from him and holding it to her chest.  
  
"I thought I heard some shouting earlier," he remarked. "And I could have sworn I heard voices coming from in here."  
  
"Ah. That would have been...me. I was kind of talking. To myself."  
  
"I see." They both paused, and Hermione became acutely aware of two facts. One was that she must look something of a fright with her blotchy, tear- stained, likely swollen face. The second thing she remembered was that not only was she speaking with a former teacher, she was talking to the professor whom she had nursed a crush on since her third year. And no matter how she might try to convince herself otherwise, she cared very much what he thought of her. As all this crossed her mind, she had a sudden very immediate urge to burst into tears all over again. Despite her convictions, her lower lip was beginning to tremble and she felt the weight of tears building up behind her eyes. The look of concern that came to Lupin's face only humiliated her more.  
  
He sat down beside her on the bed and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, pressing it into her hand. "Here, take this," he said. He put one arm gently, if rather awkwardly, around her shoulders and patted her arm, saying something to the effect of "There, there." To her chagrin, Hermione found herself sobbing against his shoulder.  
  
When the tears had subsided enough that she could hesitantly blow her nose and begin to speak, all she could seem to say was, "I'm sorry."  
  
"No apologies needed," Lupin said. "Now, if you're feeling a bit better and don't mind me asking, what is it that's bothering you?"  
  
"I—I don't know exactly," she sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with the now wadded-up handkerchief. "Harry and Ron and I...we aren't getting along very well anymore."  
  
"Please try to take this in the best way possible, but that's understandable. You three have been under a lot of stress lately, so it's no wonder that there's tension. I know the three of you have been close for a long time, and naturally I hope you always will be, but you have to accept that things change. People change and grow apart, and there's nothing you can do about it."  
  
"I suppose so," she replied. "But I do wonder sometimes if there's more to it than that. I don't know what, but it just seems like there should be something more. I don't really know what I'm saying though. Forget it. I'm probably talking nonsense." She waved her hand in the air, as if she was erasing her previous words.  
  
"Hermione, I don't mean to intrude..." he said hesitantly, "but if there's anything you'd like to tell me, anything you want to discuss, I would like you to know that I'm always here. You can tell me anything, understand?"  
  
"Yes," Hermione said as she stifled a large yawn.  
  
"Well," Lupin said with a smile, "it's getting late. It might be best if you get a good night's sleep, hmm?"  
  
"All right." She nodded, realizing how tired she was. "Good night, Prof—Remus." He stood to leave then, giving her hand a quick squeeze. For a moment he just stood there, looking at her, and Hermione felt herself blush slightly. Reaching forward, he smoothed a tendril of hair back from her face, in the same sort of gesture Ron had done to her earlier, but this time Hermione found she did not mind at all.  
  
He pulled his hand back, and the moment was broken. "Well, I'd better be off," he said and turned towards the door.  
  
"Wait!" Hermione said, a bit stronger than she intended. "Um...thank you."  
  
"You're welcome." He bowed his head before closing the door. "Any time."

* * *

Snape set his quill down and heaved a sigh of relief. The exams were done for the term, and there wasn't a single near-perfect score to dampen the mood of relaxation that came over him. A glance at the dying candle told him it was late and a large yawn confirmed the finding. He could go to bed now, but why not celebrate? He unpacked his tea set leisurely, pulled his wand out of his pocket and set about making himself a good cup of tea, slightly enhanced by a dash of liquid from a small bottle of brandy he kept tucked away with his lesson plans. Leaning back in his chair, a trace of what might have been a smile came to his lips. "Peace. Quiet. Too good to last, I'm sure."  
  
As with all pessimistic prophecies, it came true. Snape heard the sound of a door slamming and someone stomping down the hall. He looked up and through the crack of the door saw Hermione going past in tears. He stood in the doorway and he watched her go into her room and shut the door. From the sounds he heard, he deduced that she was crying harder now, with pauses where she seemed to be talking angrily at no one. Never having been one for empathy, Snape found himself quite confused by the urge to go to her. Go to her and what? Soothe her with meaningless words of comfort? Take her in his arms and kiss her tears away? The impulse that he assured himself was not compassion prompted him to cross the room, but when he was faced with the prospect of actually leaving the room, he hesitated. He remembered her earlier behavior towards him, and shook his head. There was no doubt that whatever he felt for her—he could not at this moment give his emotions a name—she did not return the feelings in kind. No, she had made it perfectly clear that she thought very little of him. _What does she see me as? An unpleasant teacher, Lucius Malfoy's lackey? Well, she's right about one thing. I am not a nice person._  
  
So why did he continue to stand in the doorway instead of sitting down? Why did the sound of her weeping pain him so much? If anyone discovered this weakness, anyone at all, he would never be able to live it down. Feeling this way for a student he didn't even like was utterly wrong, he told himself. Wrong. But it felt even more wrong to leave her crying by herself... He continued to stand there, wavering between two options. Either one it seemed would cause unhappiness.  
  
And then his inner turmoil was no longer valid, for Remus Lupin came walking down the hall and knocked on Hermione's door. Snape watched him disappear inside and heard the murmur of voices. The moment was gone and he was forced to remember that he had absolutely no right to see to the welfare of Hermione Granger. _And that's Remus' job?_ he thought bitterly. Oh, it goaded him to imagine Remus Lupin consoling Hermione. He certainly has a knack for getting what I want... Images flashed through his mind. Remus getting his prefect's badge. Remus arriving at Hogwarts for his Defense Against the Dark Arts post. And now, Remus comforting Hermione..._ No_, Snape told himself. _It does no good to think that way. You were right in not going to her. You know how you despise those fools who wear their heart on their sleeve. To be ruled by your emotions is to be weak._ At least he was still in control, wasn't he? He had that much, he reassured himself as he returned to his desk and made an effort to ignore the growing feeling of emptiness.  
  
A clock down the hall struck the hour, but he did not bother counting to see what time it was. Snape sat alone in his office with his pile of graded papers and cooling mug of tea, not sure if he had just won a victory or lost the battle.


	4. Chapter 4

I.

Hermione lay in bed and listened to the sound of Lupin's footsteps as they faded away. She snuggled further into her blankets and sighed. All right, it was a tad childish to cry on his shoulder and be tucked into bed by him, but still the memory of it brought a smile to her lips. As Hermione drifted off to sleep, her last thoughts were of the look in his eyes as he stood before her, the feeling of his hand as it brushed back her hair, the weight of his arm around her shoulders. As sleep claimed her, her thoughts became looser, fuzzier, until she could not tell where they ended and her real life began. In the state she was in, she slipped quickly into dreaming.

Everything she knew, everything she had, everyone she worried and cared about was gone. Hermione stood alone in a great hall of black marble. There were no distinguishing marks anywhere she could see; the walls were plain, the floors unmarked. Both continued on indefinitely. There were no doors or windows to show a way out, no signs that marked whether she was at the beginning or the end of the corridor. For all she could tell, she was in the middle, for no matter which direction she looked the space seemed infinite. The walls and pillars rose so high they were lost in shadow and no ceiling could be seen. The only thing to do was to choose one direction and move in it, and Hermione decided that the direction she was facing was as good as the other.

She began to walk forward, but no matter how far she walked, she didn't reach any sort of destination. Perhaps she was going the wrong way, or perhaps there was no right way, no way out at all. Maybe she was trapped there. Her desperation mounting, she ran, hitting the walls in frustration, as if hoping she could find a door, a hidden portal, anything she had missed. She beat her fists against the wall and cried out in frustration, but it was all to no avail. Nothing changed. At last, exhausted by her efforts, she slumped against the wall, feeling tears welling up in her eyes. Standing still she felt even wearier than before and whatever previous strength had kept her going now gave out. She slid to her knees and began to shake uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered and tears ran down her face and spotted the floor.

Hermione did not know how long she sat there with her eyes closed. The floor was very cold and hard, and after some time she began to feel uncomfortable. She decided that there was no use in simply waiting there feeling miserable, so she wiped the stray tears from her eyes and got up, only to find herself more confused than before. While she wasn't watching, the scenery had changed.

First and most obvious, was the fact that a river had appeared in front of her. She was still inside, but the long hallway had turned into one very large room bisected by a swift-moving river. In keeping with the general ambiance of the room, the water was black and somehow seemed ominous. There was no way to cross the river, and no way to go around it. "Looks like I definitely came the wrong direction," Hermione said and sighed. Maybe it was the strange acoustics of the room, but her voice sounded unnatural to her ears. _Something is wrong here. I want to get out. Now!_ her internal voice demanded. With that thought in mind, she decided to turn around and go back the way she had come.

That plan became futile the instant she looked back over her shoulder. Where the corridor had been before, there was only a wall. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, and shook her head—no luck. The wall wasn't going anywhere and now she was more effectively trapped than before. "Well, the only way forward is forward," she said to herself, not very convincingly. She turned back and braced herself for whatever would happen next. There had to be some way to get across. A bridge, a way around, something else she wasn't thinking of...it was only logical. Otherwise, what was the point of this room?

_No, wait. _Now she was going about it wrong. This place lacked any internal logic. It wasn't bound by any natural laws. The only rules that held any sway here were those of magic, and quite frankly she had no idea what principles this place operated upon. _The only was forward is forward,_ she thought, worrying the words in her mind as if they would disclose some new, hitherto unknown information. If that was her strategy, she may as well start moving forward. As she did so, Hermione noticed one very important detail she had missed before. There was something on the other bank (if you could call the other side of a room that) of the river. She drew closer and frowned_. Maybe I'm mistaken, but...that's no something, that's a somebody._

She was not mistaken. In the distance a solitary figure stood unmoving, completely wrapped in a cloak of deep black so that no features could be made out. Hermione didn't know how, but she simply _knew_ that this was a man and he needed her help in some way. She knew that she needed to get to him.

_You must cross,_ a voice said, sounding as if it were right in her ear. Hermione spun around, but there was no one there. She was alone. _You must cross, _thevoice insisted again. She glanced around nervously but didn't expectto see anyone.

"Why?" she demanded. "What do you want me to do and why?"

She heard a slight chuckle then, not menacing, but not comforting either. _You never fail to amaze me_, it whispered. _It's really very simple. Stop thinking so hard about things._

"What? What are you talking about?" she wailed before realizing how ridiculous it was to be whining at a disembodied voice. As she had expected, there was no answer in return.

Hermione looked around once again. The only person who was in sight was the man. _So. Don't think so hard...well, the easiest answer here would be that it's him talking. I can go with that. _It was reasonable to assume that she had heard his voice. He had told her to cross so she would cross, for what other options did she have anyway? He was awaiting her.

Determined, Hermione waded into the river. It was cold, so cold it froze her entire body, and she wanted nothing more than to stop. She could not see the bottom, in fact she could hardly see across, but she kept moving. The pain from the cold was unbearable, but her sense that this was urgent kept her moving. The further she got towards the other bank, the stronger the current became, until she could barely fight being swept downstream. As if from a long distance away, she heard her own voice, hoarse and desperate, calling for help. For the first time, the figure on the other side moved. He turned towards her and crossed to the edge of the river. She screamed again and reached for him, and he extended one black-gloved hand towards her, but there was no way he could reach her. The current lifted her up as if she were nothing, and pulled her away from him. Her whole body was going into shock as the black waters surrounded her and pulled her down. Her thoughts moved faster and faster, whirling by in one confused jumble. _The water was trying to freeze all life out of her and he simply stood there and watched_. As the waves drew her under completely, she saw him lift his hands and pull the hood of his cloak back from his face.

Before his identity was revealed, the current sucked her under and drove the breath from her body with its chill strength. She struggled against it with all her might, slapping at the water and flailing about, but it was no use. She couldn't fight any longer, and when she opened her mouth to scream or to draw breath, her lungs were flooded with river water.

Hermione awoke choking and gasping for breath, a scream on her lips. She was damp with sweat and entangled in blankets, and apparently she had been thrashing about, for a comforter and one of her pillows lay on the floor. Once she had regrouped and rearranged her bed things she collapsed against her pillow, exhausted and confused. Hermione knew that it was only a dream, but she couldn't shake how _real_ it had felt. The smooth marble, the bone-chilling water, the horrible feeling of drowning—they all seemed as true to her senses as what she felt right now.

And then there was the mysterious figure...ah yes, the man, for she was still certain he had been male. Hermione had never been one who was very interested in the interpretation of dreams, but perhaps that was because up until now she had had very straight-forward dreams. She couldn't think of any that were particularly pleasant and none were very inventive in their calamities. They usually involved something going wrong at school: an unexpected exam, a low mark, or a class she forgot she was taking. Those ones were always upsetting, but the effect wore off quickly. Recently she had had more nightmares that left her shaken, all of them involving some combination of Voldemort and Death Eaters, and usually ending with the death of Ron or Harry. The cause of this, however, was obvious. As a Muggle might say, they were something out of Psychology 101. Until now, her dreams had always been like a case study out of a textbook.

But this dream...she could see no direct correlation to her life, and she didn't like this. A recognizable pattern should be there; without it she felt lost. _Pattern. Hmm...think less literally Hermione! Well, in the dream, you're alone, and you've been feeling alone after this whole mess with Harry and Ron. That works. _The thought that there might be some decipherable method to the madness of the dream cheered her immediately. She felt that she must be on the verge of cracking this code, and after that she could put the dream aside and it would trouble her no more. Until then, well, she would find something to do. Not, Hermione decided, sleep. She wasn't very tired anymore; in fact she felt restless and ill at ease staying here in her room, so she got up and, as an afterthought, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. No need to spoil her Christmas holidays by catching a chill. Hermione grabbed her wand off her night stand and whispered "_Lumos!_"

With her wand in hand, she padded stocking-footed down the hall. She had no real destination in mind. Perhaps another time she might have snuck in to Ron and Harry's room, but not tonight. _Besides, _she told herself, _we're getting too old for that kind of thing._ Now Hermione began to doubt her decision to leave her warm room. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to get out of bed; no one else seemed to be awake and she found the stillness of the house rather unnerving. The sensible thing to do would be to go back to bed, but Hermione found herself wanting to ignore this practical side. She didn't feel like going back to sleep, she felt like curling up with a book. She really was in the mood for a little light reading. If only she'd remembered to pack _Hogwarts: A History!_ Come to think of it, she was almost certain Lupin had a copy in his office. However, she really shouldn't be going in to his office without his permission. Still, he probably wouldn't mind if he knew it was her.... She drummed her fingers against her chin as she thought. If she just crept in there and got the book, it wouldn't really be too intrusive, would it?

Her mind made up, Hermione tiptoed through the quiet house towards Lupin's study. She hesitated outside for a moment, her conscience giving one last small pang before she reached for the doorknob. It was locked. "_Alohomora!" _she said quietly, and the knob turned in her hand. Once inside, Hermione realized that finding any book was no small task. Stacks of books covered every available surface in the room, only leaving room for a chair and a small bare spot at the desk, which Hermione assumed was for writing. A quill and ink were tucked off to the side, and a piece of parchment lay there partially covered in writing. Hermione's morals got the better of her curiosity however, and she did not look at it. Instead she began to comb through the shelves, scanning the spines for a sign of _Hogwarts: A History_.

She was down on her knees looking under the desk when she heard something that made her pause: a scratching sound, followed by a thud and a...growl? Hermione looked over her shoulder and shivered, for it sounded as if it was coming from behind her. She held her wand out and its thin beam of light illuminated a door in the wall behind her. The only explanation she could think of for the door was that it was Lupin's bedroom. As soon as this occurred to her, Hermione also realized how much she did not want Lupin to find her poking around in his office at God knows what hour of the night. She had made up her mind to leave as quickly and quietly as possible when she heard a second, much louder, crash issue from the back room.

That was it. Hermione could no longer contain her curiosity, not to mention her growing sense of worry. Her heart was pounding, but she held her wand high and walked to the door. There was another bang and a strange skittering sound that Hermione could not place. She lifted her fist and knocked softly on the door. No answer. She knocked again, louder this time, and called out, "Remus!" Again, there was only silence in response. _What was going on?_ she asked herself. The sensible thing to do now was leave, but she couldn't shake the sense that something was wrong. She couldn't leave now, not...not if he needed her. _Don't be silly. Why would he need you? _a bothersome voice hissed inside her head, but she pushed it aside. On the verge of losing her nerve, she forced herself to count under her breath, "One. Two. Three..." As she said three, she pushed the door open. The room was dark and seemed to be still, though Hermione heard the sound of someone breathing heavily. She looked around and saw an overturned chest of drawers trailing spilled clothes across the floor.

"Remus?" she said, her voice quavering a little. "Remus, are you all right?"

She got no answer in reply, only a faint growl that seemed to be coming from under the bed. "Hello? Is anyone there?" she whispered, her scratchy voice sounding almost unfamiliar to her. Her heart was pounding but Hermione dropped to her knees to look under the bed. What she saw made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. A pair of yellow eyes were staring back at her. She gasped and began to back away, but it was too late. The yellow eyes moved closer and by the light of her wand she was now able to briefly make out a muzzle before the werewolf lunged forward, its claws scraping across the wooden floor. In her rush to get away, Hermione's wand fell from her hand and slid across the floor, while she tripped over a pair of pinstriped pajamas and hit the ground painfully. The last thing she had time to do was let out a lung-emptying scream as she felt the werewolf advance on her.

II.

Severus Snape lay asleep in his bed. He was not resting peacefully, but this was not in itself unusual. It had been a long time since his sleep had been untroubled. Hermione's scream wove itself into his dreams and he slept on. His life and his nightmares had bled into each other long ago.

It was a soft, muffled sound that awoke him; the sound of people moving about in the dark, reaching for wands and slippers and bathrobes. There was a hushed panoply of nighttime noises, and then there was something underlying it that was wrong, that much he was sure of. Grumbling slightly at the interruption to his sleep (and knowing he would pay for it the next day), he arose and walked to the window. The stars had faded, and the moon's light had waned. It was very late, he thought. No one should be up at this hour. There was a sharp knock on the door and he instinctually reached for his wand, only to find it was not there. Of course, he was wearing his pajamas now...after a bit of fumbling around in the dark, Snape found his wand in the pocket of his robes. He was pulling on his bathrobe when there was a sharp knock at the door.

"Yes?"

"Severus? Are you awake?"

Since it was Dumbledore, Snape bit back the worst of the usual sarcastic comments that came to mind, and simply opened the door. "Albus. Minerva. What unforeseen event brings you to my door at this late hour? Tell me, what calamities have occurred while I was otherwise engaged?"

"Severus, this is not a joking matter. We have a serious situation on our hands, " said McGonagall.

"And we did not before?" he retorted, arching one eyebrow.

"Your much esteemed wit is not going to help matters now," she said, measuring out each word in a clipped tone. "Considering the hour and the circumstance, I suggest we keep all banter to a minimum and focus on the situation at hand." How she managed to look so tightly pulled together in a bathrobe and slippers, with her hair up in a braid about her head and her spectacles on a chain around her neck, intrigued Snape.

He paused for a moment, but he knew she was right. "Very well. Agreed."

"Well then," said Dumbledore. "Shall we go on now?"

As they walked down the hall, Dumbledore briefly explained the situation and apologized. "I am sorry that this gathering had to take place on a full moon. I would have postponed this meeting if it were any other time...but I discussed the matter with Remus and he believed that the measures in place would be enough to stop his condition from interfering."

"It appears that the Wolfsbane potion is not having the desired effect, then," he mused.

"So it would seem, though that is your area of expertise, not mine," Dumbledore said. "Ah, here we are."

By the time Snape had arrived at the scene, Tonks and Mad-Eye Moody had already restrained the werewolf. Ron and Harry had emerged from the second floor, hair rumpled and eyes sleepy, wanting to know what had happened. Dumbledore was saying something in a calm, reassuring voice, but Snape didn't listen to his words. Usually he would have been busy thinking about the Wolfsbane potion, possible side effects perhaps, or interactions that other substances could have upon it, but right now he couldn't ignore the feeling that something was missing.

And then he knew: of course, it was Hermione. She should have been there, looking annoyingly inquisitive and concerned. _Shouldn't Potter and Weasley be wondering about her by now?_ he thought. _Of course, if they aren't getting on, perhaps not... _It looked as if he would have to be the one who brought up the subject. Snape cleared his throat and said, "Has anyone seen Miss Granger?"

The rest of the Order were now in the midst of a conversation and did not notice that he was speaking. A visibly shaken Tonks was talking. "...just an hour before dawn...should be out of it by then...it's been harder on him lately..." Their attention was on her and Snape received no response.

The next time he spoke he almost shouted to be heard above the din, "Has anyone seen Miss Granger?" They looked at him for a moment, and then began to all talk at once. By the time he had managed to slow them down and hear them out one by one, he understood they were all saying the same thing: they had not seen Hermione.

Snape held his wand up and began to search the corridor carefully. What he saw made him feel as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water onto his chest. A small, bloody handprint was smeared against the wall outside Lupin's office door. There were a few stray drippings of blood dotted along the floor, but no other sign that someone had passed. Snape began to walk faster until he rounded the corner and almost bumped into a short figure dressed in white. In the beam of light from his wand, he saw Hermione standing before him in a plain white nightgown stained with blood. She leaned against the wall, her hair forming a wild halo of frizz around her bone-white face. For a moment she stared at him, wide eyed and confused. "What? What are you doing here?" she said weakly, but before she could finish her thought, her head began to slump forward.

Snape was at her side in a fraction of a second, and he caught her in his arms as she sank forward. She felt so light and fragile he was afraid he would hurt her as he lifted her in his arms, not noticing the blood smearing against what was his newest bathrobe (a present from the staff for his last birthday). He carried her back to the cluster of people standing outside Lupin's office and pushed his way into the circle, not caring if he was interrupting them as they were conducting desperate last minute measures to save Lupin's life (in fact, he rather hoped they were). "Look what I found," he said, not intending for his voice to come out as rough as it did. He couldn't help but notice the baffled expressions that crossed Harry and Ron's faces, and the strange look Tonks shot him.

As Snape had expected, Dumbledore acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary by him turning up with Hermione in his arms. "Thank you, Severus," he said.

McGonagall was at his side instantly, reaching out to support Hermione's head. "Oh dear, she seems to be bleeding quite a bit. I had better get to work on some healing spells. I might need to floo Poppy for some supplies...if only it wasn't so late..." She set to work at once giving directions. "You, Nymphadora, don't just stand there. Someone needs to open up the guest bedroom down the hall—the one with two beds, mind you. It looks as if Remus will need a little patching up when he comes around—assuming you didn't hit him too hard with that Stunning Spell, Alastor." Her proclamations done, she rolled up her sleeves and hurried down the hall.

Snape was left standing in the hallway with Hermione in his arms. She stirred slightly in his arms and moaned, and he looked down at her, realizing for the first time that her blood was soaking into his clothing. Their eyes met for a moment, though he saw that her pupils were dilated and she seemed to have trouble focusing on his face. "What—what are you doing? Where am I? Put me down!" she protested, struggling against him slightly.

Snape ignored her hands flailing against his chest. "We need to do something, Albus. Based on what little I know about Muggle medicine, I assume she's going into shock."

"Then I think you had better get her into bed."

"I can assure you Headmaster," Snape said, "that I will see to it."


	5. Chapter 5

Minerva had done as she said she would, and a temporary infirmary had been pulled together on the first floor. One of the spare bedroom was opened up, the door unsealed, the sheets taken off the bed, and the windows flung open to allow fresh air. Two beds were prepared, one on either side of the room, though a screen had been hastily put up between them.  
  
Snape watched the preparations dazedly, his attention all too focused on the hundred-odd pounds of adolescent female—or should he call her a young woman?—in his arms. She was not bleeding as much now, since he had had the presence of mind to use a clotting spell, but it appeared his pajamas were already ruined. No matter; clothing could always be replaced, but she...no. As soon as those thoughts began to take form, he intervened. Right now the best thing he could do was distance himself from the event. He would think of other things right now. He would force himself to list the twelve uses of dragon's blood, name the ingredients of every potion ever mentioned in the NEWTs, anything other than allowing himself to notice the feeling of fear that gripped his chest—  
  
"Severus?"  
  
He jumped slightly, and Hermione stirred against his chest.  
  
Minerva was frowning at him. "Severus, I said we have the cot made up. Can you put her down now?"  
  
Slowly, reluctantly, he carried Hermione over the bed and sat her down as gently as possible. He detached her hands from his shirt and, after a moment's pause, attempted to rest them on her stomach.  
  
"Thank you. That will be all," Minerva said with a curt nod before turning back to the girl on the bed.  
  
"Are you all right?" Tonks asked him. "You look a little woozy. You aren't one of those blokes who can't stand the sight of blood, are you? I mean, I wouldn't have pinned you for the type, but you never know now, do you? I mean..."  
  
"I'm just fine, thank you," he snapped. "I'm most certainly not—woozy."  
  
He left the room, his dignity smarting somewhat—the very idea, that he was the type of man who became faint-hearted around blood—and him being a former Death Eater. _I could tell them I wouldn't have lasted long if I were the type to get the vapors at the sight of a little gore._ Speaking of which, he noted as he looked down at this clothing, he really should change out of these bloodstained things.  
  
A quick wash-up with the basin and pitcher in his room (_Praise be to Merlin for warming spells in the middle of December_), a fresh set of clothes, and a comb through his hair, and Snape was ready to face the world—or he would have been, if he had any intention of doing so. No, the first light of dawn was coming through the window, and he suddenly realized how tired he was. Morning had come and Lupin would be back in human form. The other Order members could deal with it.  
  
Something was troubling him, however. Perhaps he should see about Hermione, just to make sure Minerva and Tonks weren't botching anything up out of sheer ignorance, or clumsiness. He weighed the merits of disturbing them—he had no excuse, no good reason, not even to justify this to himself. The argument continued in his head until he realized that he was standing outside the converted bedroom and knocking on the door. As he had expected, he did not get past Minerva's guard. He was shooed unceremoniously from the room and told to stay out while Minerva and Tonks attended to "certain business" only appropriate for females.  
  
Snape knew he wasn't needed, and felt both grateful and resentful as he sat down on a chair someone had placed in the hallway outside the door. He didn't intend to fall asleep; he was meaning to get back to his room and start reading a series of articles on potions making that a rival of his had published (all theoretical, and likely nonsense or carefully rearranged plagiarism, or both), but Snape's eyes began to close against his will and his head nodded forward. He was still sitting there in the hall when a commotion came from inside the room. The door to the impromptu infirmary swung open and Minerva sailed out.  
  
She waited for him to jerk out of his light sleep, though she said nothing about him dozing off in the middle of the corridor. "I think you'll want to have a look at this," she said, her voice saying clearly there would be No Messing About.  
  
Various thoughts, none of them flattering, shot through his mind, though he truthfully didn't know what to expect. He walked into the room and went straight to Hermione Granger's bedside. She lay in bed, appearing to sleep peacefully. She seemed to be naked, but a blanket was tucked up to her shoulders to cover her. Snape could see angry scratches beginning above the blanket, but it was nothing that time and a few simple spells wouldn't see to.  
  
"Well, what is it?" he asked irritably. "You didn't bring me here to tell you to give her a spoonful of Dreamless Sleep and use a few basic spells for some little nicks and cuts. I don't see anything serious."  
  
"That was what we thought too," said McGonagall. "But look more carefully." She pointed to the base of Hermione's neck.  
  
Snape looked closer, and frowned. "I don't see anything there. No, wait...is that?"  
  
A row of red, swollen tooth marks lay along the ridge of her collarbone. Snape reached out and traced around them with his finger, feeling the heat in her skin centering around the bites. She stirred beneath his touch and moaned weakly, her eyes opening briefly before she lapsed back into unconsciousness.  
  
"He bit her," was all he could say.  
  
Minerva nodded. "I'm afraid so."  
  
The silence stretched on. "I think I need to sit down," Snape said finally. He saw Tonks begin to open her mouth, but he silenced her with a wave of his hand. "I'm perfectly well, never fear. You won't be rid of me yet, it's just a bit more than I expected for the early morning hours."  
  
It was the truth to a certain extent; he was tired. But more than that, he just wanted to say "No." _Merlin, no. Not right now._ He wanted to say, "Enough!" and have everything stop. He was so tired right now... however, he knew better than to expect things to improve. _"Things bad begun make strong themselves by worse,"_ he thought, something he remembered reading from a Muggle play—no, written by that wizard that the Muggles loved so much—Shakespeare, it was. Well, no matter, but still...Snape couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something larger, though what that something was he didn't know.  
  
Still, no reason to lose his head over the situation. Realizing how long he'd been sitting there in silence, he glanced up and saw that the two witches were watching him. He turned to them, not knowing what reaction he expected. Tonks was frowning, but from Minerva there was only a look of intense sympathy on her face. _No, no, no. This is not what you need, Severus. The day you start welcoming pity is the day you'll know you've lost it for good._  
  
"I'll go get Professor Dumbledore," Tonks said, making a sudden move for the door. "You two can talk things over."  
  
Minerva watched her go, then turned back to Snape, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Is there something I should know?"  
  
"I don't take your meaning, Minerva. If you want to say something, speak plain."  
  
"I can't precisely explain it. All I can say is that you seem...off."  
  
"Well, nothing new there, or so I've heard. Allegedly I was born on the wrong side of the bed." He laughed humourlessly at this. He hadn't meant to even touch the subject of his childhood. It wasn't something that he discussed, particularly not with the Head of Gryffindor House, and Deputy Headmistress to boot.  
  
Apparently, she was not in a professorial mood. Her eyes narrowed and she said, exasperated, "Severus, I know you're a bastard. You do a fine job of proving that every day, but that's not what I'm saying. If anything, you aren't being enough of a bastard right now."  
  
He arched one eyebrow: "The Head of Gryffindor using such language? I'm shocked."  
  
"Well, if you want to avoid the issue, so be it. I won't press further, though I must say," she paused, pressing her lips together, "I am concerned about you."  
  
"Concerned? How must uncommonly kind of you."  
  
She just shook her head. "I think it's time someone really was worried about you."  
  
"What do you mean? As if Albus didn't breath down my neck enough, now I need the official Gryffindor Caring Committee to dispense benevolent concerns on my part?" he sneered at her.  
  
She threw her hands up in the air. "No wonder no one ever gets close to you. You drive them away or you drive them mad, which ever one comes first."  
  
_I'd watch it if I were you, Minerva_, he thought. _In case you didn't notice, this is not the best time to cross me._ "It's not really any of your concern, is it now?"  
  
She sank down into a chair across from him and rubbed at her temples wearily. "Oh, Severus. Do you really want to spend the rest of you life in self-imposed isolation, bitter and miserable?"  
  
"Has it ever occurred to you that I prefer my own company, and would rather not waste my time with a bunch of bores, dunderheads, and people who oh-so-sincerely insist on expressing their concern when they really have no business doing so?"  
  
"Yes, and I don't believe it."  
  
"And why is my personal life suddenly an issue here?" Snape found that he was clutching rather too hard at the back of his chair—hard enough that his knuckles were turning white and splinters were digging into his hand. He was unprepared for the wave of pure anger that swept through him. _If she knows what's good for her, she should stop. I'm not going to stay this calm much longer._  
  
It seemed she did not hear his mental pleas. "The work you do for the Order—for the cause, it concerns all of us. You know very well that our lives are in your hands. If there's something wrong, we have a right to know. Any gap in your disguise, any chink in your armor, any minor slip-up and Voldemort could get through. Now, I know Albus trusts you implicitly, but any problems you have, even if they're personal, if they affect you mentally..." Minerva looked down at her hands. She had put it as delicately as she possibly could. What more could she do?  
  
But at that particular moment it was too much for Severus. The barrier of coldness, of icy, indifferent disdain gave way. "You don't trust me, do you? All along, you've never trusted me. 'Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.' That's what you you'd like to think, isn't it? The only way you can stomach a former follower of the Dark Lord is to have them be some sort of martyr, who's constantly tormenting themself over what dark deeds they've done, and repays for them by being all selfless love and compassion towards humanity. That isn't me, but do you think I haven't suffered? Do you think I'm spared that torment? You do, don't you? Well, let me tell you something, Minerva. There are many forms of penitence."  
  
She looked at him long and hard, but neither of them flinched. "Severus, I'm not saying you don't feel remorse, and I'm certainly not saying you haven't suffered. I just think I'd fear for you less if you seemed capable of having feelings...capable of loving something, anything."  
  
"May I inquire as to why you chose this particular time to shed a light on my inner failings?"  
  
She blinked. "I don't believe it's worth mentioning right now."  
  
"If you're going to bother to say all that and than not..." He gave a little sigh, and looked at her with a combination of derision and frustration. "Women."  
  
"Not interrupting an important conversation, I hope," said a cheerful voice from the door.  
  
_Albus_, Snape thought. _Flitting around in high spirits whilst the rest of us mortals are down in the muck, managing to bugger up our own lives quite well, and still doing a good job of interfering with other people's messes._  
  
"Severus and I were just—"  
  
"No, nothing important," Snape said smoothly. "Though our news is another matter. Most unfortunately, it appears that Miss Granger has lived up to her usual talent for getting herself into sticky situations. Let's just say this one is a bit worse than I thought she would be able to manage on her first day of the Christmas holidays."  
  
"Well, out with it, man!" said Alastor Moody, who Snape hadn't even noticed appear in the doorway. No doubt about it, he was gathering quite the crowd. Harry and Ron had arrived and were now gazing at him expectantly—_quite the unusual situation, as they weren't exactly models of concentration in the classroom._  
  
He never did get around to providing an explanation—before he had formulated his sentence, Minerva had moved in and taken charge of the situation yet again, informing everyone else what had happened. After she finished, she cleared her throat and waited, the same mannerisms she used while teaching class. "Any questions?"  
  
Ron spoke first. _"What?"_  
  
"She's managed to get herself turned into a werewolf," Snape said. "A werewolf," he repeated very slowly, knowing exactly how much he was annoying the impatient Mr. Weasley, and getting a bitter sort of satisfaction from it. "It's not that difficult a concept and after all, I do seem to remember that you learned something pertaining to the subject in your Defense Against the Dark Arts class third year."  
  
A silence filled the room, no one knowing how to break it. Finally there came a sigh and a scraping sound against the wood floor as Tonks dragged a chair from the corner to the center of the room and sat down with a loud sigh.  
  
"Well, shit. This is bad."  
  
"Really, I hadn't noticed," Snape said.  
  
"Severus. Do we need to go through this again?"  
  
"Terribly sorry, Minerva. Won't happen again." It was amazing how much she sounded like his mother.  
  
"What I'd like to know is who's going to have to tell her." said Mad-Eye Moody. "Whoever gets it, I don't envy you the job. She's not a bad sort of girl—I'd hate to have to spring the news on her," he admitted gruffly.  
  
_Well, it looks like you've managed to charm more than one hard soul, Hermione._  
  
"I believe the best person to tell her would be Remus," said Minerva, "but since that's not possible, I'll do it myself. I'm her Head of House, and I've been her teacher for seven years. I think I should know her well enough that I can talk with her. I know she trusts me, and I hope...I only hope it will do. I suppose it will have to. For now, I think we should let her rest. That's the best thing we can do for her now—just let her "  
  
There were nods and murmurs of agreement with not a few looks of relief—no one had wanted the task—and a few yawns mixed in.  
  
"Since it seems none of us have had a good night's sleep, perhaps we should adjourn this little meeting, if there's no further business?" Dumbledore said. "There's enough to deal with when we're well-rested. Everything will still be here when we return."  
  
"Of course, we need to see that Remus is settled in," said Minerva. "And I'll check on Miss Granger—she seems to be running a fever, and I wouldn't want to leave her alone too long."  
  
"As you see fit, Minerva, though I'd like to have a word with you first in my rooms. I'm sure Miss Granger will be well cared for." Dumbledore clasped his hands behind him and nodded. "Now, if there are no further questions, I shall retire."  
  
"I'll go check on Remus," Tonks said. "I think I have some salve left over...perhaps it's in the cupboard downstairs. If you'll excuse me..."  
  
She hurried off down the hall, followed by the gradual trickling out of the crowd. Only Snape stayed behind. Dumbledore shot him an indecipherable look, but said nothing. Snape crossed the room and looked down at the figure on the bed, not knowing what he was doing.  
  
She lay there before him on the bed, her hair spilling out around her in wild tendrils, her skin pale except for the cheeks flushed with fever. For the first time, Snape was able to look at Hermione uninterrupted, to notice the way her eyelashes curled on her cheeks, the smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose, the way her pink lips looked damp and far too... Before he knew what he was doing, he was touching her, running his fingers along the curve of her cheek, the outline of her jaw, brushing his thumb against the corner of her mouth. _Oh God._ What am I doing? He knew he had to stop before he wanted more. Regretfully, he took his hand away and made for the door.  
  
_You're losing it, Severus. Why are you doing this? Why are you letting her matter to you?_ He watched her as he closed the door, feeling a mixture of anger and self-disgust, and yet... if he could, would he have it any other way? He wasn't _letting_ her matter—he had no choice. Somehow she had found her way into his heart, and he was powerless to stop it. _That doesn't mean you have to act on it. She has no idea—no idea what she's doing to you. No idea what you think about her, what you want—because you do want it, you know you do..._ So be it, he couldn't control his emotions, but he could control his actions. And he was nothing if not a man of careful, tight control.

Hermione had drifted in and out of consciousness as Snape carried her down the hall. She came to partially, only to feel herself jouncing uncomfortably, an upside-down view of the world swimming in and out of focus, but never fitting together. Up was down, down was up, and all the while she felt helplessly out of control, struggling against a pair of arms that refused to release her. The floor was the ceiling and she wanted desperately to walk on it, but she couldn't escape. She had to, she must, but she couldn't. Couldn't. Get. Away. She continued to struggle, but then the arms were putting her down and she had nothing to push against, and she suddenly felt bereft. She wanted the arms back but now she was surrounded by starchy blankets and a rough pillow, and there was a cool hand on her forehead.  
  
No matter how she blinked her vision refused to obey; she saw only a great blur of shadowy figures moving around her, their voices indistinct yet still drumming against her skill. Hermione heard herself crying out, and the cold hands returned and there was a soothing voice there pushing at the edge of her consciousness, but it couldn't get though, and everything remained fuzzy. Her body wasn't her own and she wasn't in control; she felt ill, running hot enough that she pushed the blankets from her, only to find her teeth chattering from the cold moments later. The sickness came and went; she found herself vomiting into a basin as a pair of capable hands smoothed her hair back and held her head as she wretched. The hands suddenly made her think of her mother and she remembered being a little girl sick in bed with one of her parents always constantly attentive, reading to her or bringing her soup or tea and toast in bed. Being the only she child, she had always been loved and fussed over, even when her parents didn't know quite what to do with her. Still, they had been there for her, and it wasn't until this moment that Hermione realized just how much she missed them right now. All those years she had spent distancing herself, trying to prove that she was independent and got along just fine on her own, and now she wanted them more than anything else in the world.  
  
If she had been more alert, she might have been embarrassed at the sudden outpouring of tears, but in her current state the sobbing was only one more thing. Someone held her against their shoulder and rocked her gently, saying "There, there" as she wept and whimpered for mummy as if she were a little girl all over again. And like a little girl she felt nothing, no shame or hesitation as her nightgown was stripped from her body and hands brushed against her clammy skin. Then someone was whispering to her, telling her to sleep, and she lay back obediently, grateful, so grateful that she didn't have to think for herself right now when her will had abandoned her.  
  
What brought her out of her sleep of oblivion was a simple touch, though the fact that it was Professor Snape who was touching her rendered the touch no longer simple. He was touching her with only a single figure, tracing a small circle on her skin. She didn't understand; he was touching her like she _mattered_, something which made no sense, even to her muddled brain. And yet...she saw the way he was looking down at her, the way their eyes met before exhaustion took over and she sank back into the fog again. He looked as if he were, well, concerned. Afraid, even.  
  
A confused series of images flicked through Hermione's mind. The last thing she remembered clearly was collapsing like some vapor-struck hysterical ninny into Severus Snape's arms. In that case...it must have been him who carried her. That struck her as strange—Snape coming to look for her? Why? He certainly wasn't the type to play hero or savior, so why...why had he come for her? It wasn't as if she were his favorite person, if even had a favorite person in the first place, which Hermione rather doubted. This certainly would have been something to puzzle over, if she had had the energy. Instead she closed her eyes and let the world recede from her.  
  
She could still hear the conversation going on around her, though it was as if she were listening to a bad connection on the radio. The words faded in and out, until something stood out above the rest.  
  
"He bit her."  
  
It echoed dully in her head. _He bit her. Bit her...bitter...bit her._  
  
And she remembered. _Crawling on the floor, slivers poking into her hands and her stomach, her wand still out of reach. The sound of claws against the wood boards, the weight on top of her suddenly, hot breath against her neck and face, and sharp pain as claws tore past her clothing and raked against her skin. There was the sound of her scream, and then a far worse pain as the wolf-man's jaw clamped against her shoulder. She rolled away, trying to escape, but she felt teeth pierce the soft flesh on her chest even as she moved away. And then somehow she was scrambling, half crawling, half walking for the door, staggering as the world suddenly reeled around her. She steadied herself against the wall and kept going, gasping in pain as she walked forward unsteadily. Was she breathing? Was that her making those sharp, gasping sounds as the world spun and everything went dark and then light, so light it hurt her eyes, and it was as if she could smell someone coming and then Snape was looming over her. "What? What are you doing here?" she managed to say before her vision faded to pinpricks of light and her body simply refused to support itself any longer._  
  
If she hadn't been in a heavily sedated state, Hermione would have begun to panic in earnest. Hmm...I wonder what Professor McGonagall gave me. It sure makes you drowsy. I feel so heavy..."  
  
Before she completely gave in into the effects of whatever potion she had been given, she heard Snape and McGonagall's voices raise, obviously agitated. She couldn't make out all the words they were saying, but the emotion was obvious enough to make up for that.  
  
"The only way you can stomach a former follower of the Dark Lord is to have them be some sort of martyr, who's constantly tormenting...by being all selfless love and compassion towards humanity...you think I haven't suffered? Do you think I'm spared that torment... You do, don't you?...tell you something....many forms of penitence."  
  
"Severus, I'm not saying you don't feel remorse...certainly not saying you haven't suffered... I'd fear for you less if you seemed capable of having feelings...capable of loving something, anything."  
  
_Love. Love and Severus Snape. What a strange combination that is,_ thought Hermione foggily. _I wonder if he's ever loved anyone, or if he even could if he wanted to. How sad, never to love someone. Sad..._  
  
There were more voices and then the sound of footsteps leaving and the door closing. Was she alone? No...someone was walking towards her. She could almost sense the air currents shifting, swirling about, and bringing the scent of this person to her nose. Hermione could almost feel the hand before it touched her, gently stroking her, and instinctively she turned into the caress. Calloused fingers slipped over her skin, a rough thumb slipped over the edge of her lips and she almost gasped aloud. She hadn't know how erotic a single touch could be, and she was gripped with an urge to turn further into the touch, to kiss the palms of this stranger's hand and bite at his (for she was certain he was male—he _smelled_ male) fingers...or was it a stranger? Her nostrils twitched at his scent...so familiar.  
  
Then his touch was gone, and she knew that he had left her. Fighting against the effects of the potion, Hermione forced her heavy eyelids open just in time to see a black-clad man closing the door behind him. She had no doubt who it was, but this answer brought a whole new flood of questions.  
  
It was Professor Snape. 

A/N: Thanks to all my reviewers! I'm sorry that the chapters have been coming slowly, but I appreciate that you're hanging in there and continuing to read and review. I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations and that you'll enjoy the next one. :-)


	6. Chapter 6

"And if there's anything I can do for you—anything at all, just ask," Professor McGonagall finished.

"I will," said Hermione.

"I mean it," the older woman said. "There are some things you should not attempt to handle by yourself, and this is one of them. It's something I see time and time again among my brightest, most mature students: the belief that they alone have to shoulder their burdens. I just want to make sure you understand that you're not alone in this."

"I understand, Professor. Thank you."

Professor McGonagall had just finished one of her "little talks"—the third that day, in fact, starting with The Big Talk. Hermione had had a few of those in her life, though she had to admit that the you-are-now-a-werewolf talk made the where-babies-come-from speech look pleasant in comparison. All things considered, she had reacted to the news with surprising calm. She felt numb, flattened­­-out, and rather insubstantial, probably the after-effects of a high fever followed by nearly two whole days of sleep. She knew Dumbledore and McGonagall assumed that she was in shock and had not accepted the situation yet. Still, if her initial reaction—asking for any reading material that pertained to werewolves—had caught them by surprise, they had had the grace not to say anything. They were letting her rely on her usual coping method of burying herself in her studies, and she was grateful for it. At the moment she sat in bed in the "infirmary", wrapped up in blankets with a mug of hot ginger tea with honey in her hand, surrounded by books that they had had floo'd in immediately from the Hogwarts library—fortunately Madame Pince didn't seem to believe in taking holidays. It was also fortunate for Hermione that Madame Pomfrey had decided to take a vacation for the first time in twenty years and was far enough away that they wouldn't call her home for this; she was busy traveling in rural parts of Spain and Italy in order to research traditional healing methods of native witches.

Other than the fact that she had been transformed into some sort of creature that could have been taken from the pages of a horror novel, Hermione felt all right. She had gotten an array of cuts, scrapes, and bruises from the incident, but the worst of it had already been healed. Tonks kept a good supply of Rutherford's Salve for Minor Bruisings and Abrasions, saying that it came in handy after her frequent accidents, and it had taken care of most of the bruising. She was still a little sore when she moved, but nothing like she would have been had her injuries been left to run their course. She had been well cared for by McGonagall and Snape.

Ah, yes...Professor Snape. That did remain a mystery, and Hermione was almost ready to dismiss it as some sort of hallucination brought on by fever, a misfiring of synapses that had nothing whatsoever to do with reality. She had seen him frequently in the last several days, and his behavior was unchanged. He could almost have passed for a solicitous caregiver, if it weren't for the perpetual scowl on his face or the sneers he directed at her, all seeming to say, _Well, if you hadn't behaved so idiotically, you wouldn't be in this mess, so don't complain to me about it._ This was the Potions professor she knew and disliked, the one who blatantly favored Slytherins and punished Gryffindors, who would as soon give her extra homework and detentions as look at her. He was most definitely _not _the man who had carried her down the hall in the odd hours of the morning, the man who had hovered at her bedside and..._touched_ her. Hermione found herself blushing at the thought and quickly attempted to take her thoughts elsewhere. It hadn't happened. It was a figment of her imagination—though why the hell would she imagine something like that? Ah well, it was better not to question the workings of one's subconscious—that could drive one mad easily enough.

"Hermione, have you taken in a word that I've said?" asked Professor McGonagall.

Hermione stirred and blinked. _What? Oh, yes...._ "Yes, I have. And I appreciate your offer. It's very generous of all of you, that you're willing to—"

"Generous? If you don't mind me saying so, that's a lot of nonsense, my dear. There isn't one person in this household who doesn't care about you. We've all been worried sick these last days—though some of us have odd ways of showing it," she said with a frown.

"Oh, I'm sure it's not everyone...Harry and Ron, of course. They might have been angry with me but they couldn't have stayed that way forever. But I'm not going to fool myself and say that I'm everyone's favorite person. Professor Snape for one..." Hermione laughed nervously, but she was annoyed at the way her voice seemed to snag on the words 'Professor Snape.'

"Mark my words, girl: everyone." Professor McGonagall leaned over and patted her on the hand. "Yes, even Severus Snape. Though it doesn't take a Legilmens to see that, now does it?"

"I don't understand..." What was she saying? Hermione began to wonder if this was still part of her feverish dreams, because it most certainly wasn't reality.

"I can't say that I understand it myself, but I'm telling you Hermione, not as your teacher, but as a woman...he cares about you."

"Me? You're joking. There's no way...there's just no way! It doesn't make any sense." Now an accompanying blush was only adding to Hermione's discomfort and she found herself squirming under McGonagall's keen gaze.

"Sense or not, it's the way things are."

"How can you be so _sure_?" Hermione protested.

"I'm not certain if I can explain this, but please trust me on this. I wouldn't say anything if I hadn't thought it through. I'm only telling you because I want you to be careful about how you deal with him. And I don't want you to go on thinking that he despises you. Do you understand?"

"Yes. At least, I think I do. Sort of."

"I suppose that will do for the time being." McGonagall sighed, took her glasses off and used a brief spell to polish them before putting them back on. "Right now though, I'd be more concerned about talking to Remus. It's not going to be an easy conversation. I'm sure he feels responsible for what happened to you, and I wasn't sure if he should see you yet—I thought it might be better to wait until you were further along in the healing process, but I don't think he can keep waiting much longer. He's so tense right now he has us worried, and we were hoping that maybe a visit from you would take some of the pressure off."

"I'll talk to him first thing," Hermione said, already beginning to feel anxious. _Oh no, already I've gone and forgotten about how Remus must be feeling! Probably horribly right now..._

"Not so fast, he's sleeping now. Perhaps you might like to take a nice hot bath first? I've more lineament for any sore muscles, but sometimes the simple things work the best. I do enjoy a hot bath myself—an indulgence I've never been able to shake, not since I was a prefect and got so spoiled using the private bathing room," she said with a smile.

Hermione had to suppress a giggle at the image of a teenaged Minerva McGonagall splashing around in a bubble bath in the prefect's bathing room. "That sounds like a good idea."

"Very well, I'll have Tonks draw one up for you in a minute. I have a few things I'll be seeing to, but give us a call if you need any assistance, all right?"

"I will."

McGonagall followed through on her word, and within a few minutes (_Oh the joys of magic!_ Hermione rhapsodized) a tub filled with steaming water had appeared in the guest bedroom, courtesy of Tonks (as was the bottle of spilled shampoo, but that was easily cleaned up).

Hermione undressed, but before she climbed into the tub she stopped and looked at herself in the mirror, something she didn't do very often. She had the same mass of mostly-uncontrollable hair, the same face that she had always thought made her look younger than her actual age—her features were all right, she supposed, in a pleasant enough way, and it certainly helped that her front teeth were no longer so prominent. Hers wasn't a bad body, she thought as she glanced down at herself, though at the moment it was a bit worse for the wear, with the half-healed scrapes and cuts that lined her skin.

Truthfully Hermione spent most of her time ignoring her body—she fed, clothed, and took care of it, but she felt it was more like a package for herself than an actual part of her. But now...she tilted her head to one side and looked herself up and down. She wasn't sure she could just keep ignoring herself like she always had. What if...she didn't want to anymore? She ran her hands down over her skin slowly, starting at her shoulders and tracing over the outline of her ribcage, her waist, her hips, her thighs, down to her knees, shivering slightly and leaving goose bumps in the wake of her touch.

There was something else Hermione had been ignoring as much as she possibly could: the little detail that she was a now a werewolf. It was definitely strange to think about. Something in her had changed, but right now she wasn't certain she minded. She hadn't been forced to cope with any murderous rages just yet, or any of the losses of control that she had so feared. Instead it was as if some inner creature had stirred in her, awaking from a long hibernation. It still seemed fairly dormant, as if it were content to simply stay there and watch the world, observing everything around it with its animal eyes. She had also found that her sense of smell and her night vision seemed to have taken on a while dizzying new life of their own. Hermione had not yet had time to carefully test these new effects, but many of her reference materials did say that heightened perception of the senses was one of the characteristics of lycanthropy, and her personal experience seemed to corroborate this information. She wondered then what it had been like for Remus all these years—she would have to ask him about it. Perhaps there were other...side benefits to this panoply of new sensations. She felt her skin heat slightly at this idea.

Wait, what was she _thinking_? She half sounded as if she were glad to have turned into this...creature. Hermione shook her head and climbed into her bath. Thoughts of any complication were incompatible with a bottle of her favorite brand of fruit-scented bubble bath. She could deal with things later.

_Merlin's beard, has the Wizarding world's top Potions journal decided that literacy is no longer a prerequisite for publication?_ Snape massaged his temples, hoping his headache would go away without a potion—he had always suffered rebound headaches after using any of the usual cures. He blamed this particular pain on the utterly incomprehensible article he had before him. Reading this article was better than teaching first year Potions classes, but only by a very slim margin. He would have given up on the damn thing ages ago if it weren't for the fact that the topic of the article was "Preventative Properties of the Wolfsbane Potion and Possible Curative Effects for Lycanthropy" and the way things had fallen out, it had suddenly become required reading.

This was _not_ how he was supposed to be spending his holidays. He had already resigned himself to the fact that this was going to be a working vacation, and he had brought along his Potions materials to work on a little theory of his own, as Dumbledore had requested. Honestly, anyone who thought that Severus Snape didn't have a weak spot didn't know just how often he ceded to Dumbledore...

There was a soft knock on the door, and Snape made a sound of irritation. "Come in."

The door closed, and whoever it was cleared their throat softly.

"Yes?" he said without looking up.

"Professor Snape..."

He glance up and... Oh. Enter Soft Spot _numero deux_ herself, looking flushed and still slightly damp from her bath. Her hair was piled on top of her head in some sort of knot, though her curls were doing a good job of escaping and straggling down her cheeks, but this could have been on purpose. He had no idea what sort of things women did with their hair and for all he knew this could have been the latest fashion, but this was Hermione Granger after all, so he rather doubted it.

She stood there, eyes downcast, looking shy and hesitant. _This_ timid-seeming girl was the brassy creature who had been firing off sassy responses the last time he'd talked to her? This time, she could hardly seem to look him in the eye or put a single sentence together. In fact, now she appeared to be sneaking a glance at him and blushing.

_What has gotten into her? _"Is there something you wanted to say to me?" he said. "I haven't got all day you know. As a matter of fact, right now I'm working on something that directly applies to your current _problem_, if you don't mind."

"Oh," she said slowly. "I suppose...I suppose I just wanted to say thank you."

"For what?" She hadn't really come all this way just to _thank_ him, had she?

Hermione was twisting one of her curls around her finger and biting her lip as she took time to answer. "Helping me."

"Did Minerva put you up to this?" he asked dryly. Perhaps it was part of whatever new mission Minerva seemed to be on, some plan to help him overcome his anti-social behavior...well, it would be a failure, he could be sure of that. To his surprise, Hermione went crimson at the mention of Minerva's name.

"No, she didn't...well, not exactly."

"I see," he said, not surprised really at Minerva's meddling, though that didn't explain the stab of disappointment that shot through him. "Well, you've done your duty and expressed your thanks. You have my permission to leave now." He waved one hand toward the door, but she didn't move. He put his papers down and turned around. What was she waiting for?

"Good bye, Miss Granger. Do I need to show you the way out?" he sneered.

"No," she said quickly, looking away. "I'll manage on my own, thanks."

"Good." His pocket watch gave a little chiming sound and he sighed. "That would also be my cue to leave. Couldn't have Remus do without his dinner after all."

"You're cooking?" she asked with a little smile on her face.

"No, Alastor is." Snape held a hand up. "And I wouldn't laugh if I were you. He hasn't won the Annual Wizards' Bake-Off thirty years in a row for nothing." He shook his head at her raised eyebrows. "And contrary to popular belief, he has _not_ rigged the contest."

Hermione laughed out loud at this, and Snape felt inordinately pleased.

"He should be Apparating the food up in a minute...at least, I hope it's him doing the spell. The last time we tried this, Tonks did it, and we got splinched peas. Not a pretty sight...all right, step back now. Ah, here we are. All in one piece, it appears. Now, if you'll excuse me..." He picked up the tray and moved toward the door, but Hermione moved to stop him.

"Here, let me take that," she told him. "I need to talk to Lupin—I mean Remus, anyway."

_Remus. Just wonderful, Severus. For once in your life you get her to smile, and she has to run off to his side within moments.... You really do have a way with women, don't you. _"Are you sure you can manage?" he asked.

"I can manage just fine, thank you." She took the tray from him with a determined look on her face, apparently back to her usual feisty self.

He watched her as she left, wishing on powers he no longer believed in that this feeling of loneliness that set in wasn't permanent. _I hope you know what you're doing, Hermione. Because I certainly don't know what you're trying to do._

Hermione creaked her way up the narrow, dim staircase, not entirely sure what she was doing. Remus' office was open, but his room appeared to be dark, and now she wondered if he was asleep. With that in mind, she crept across the floor as quietly as she could manage and set the tray down carefully so as not to wake him. Here she was, in his bedroom again when she really wasn't supposed to be there. What, was she starting to make a habit of this? Suddenly she felt nervous; her heart was pounding and she was about to leave when she saw movement in the dark and she was sure that he knew she was there. A moment ago she had wanted to see him, now she wanted anything but. She wanted to run and never stop running because she didn't know what she was doing, and that was not a feeling that Hermione was accustomed to. She was out of control, her body was betraying her by turning into some creature that had a will of its own that could overrule the rest of her judgment. But now Remus had seen her, and there was no way she could turn and leave. Instead she watched as he propped himself up on one arm and said "Hermione?" softly, though she saw him wince slightly at the movement.

"Careful," she said. _No, don't sound fussy, Hermione! Try not to be a nag, all right? _"Sorry to bother you, I was just bringing you your dinner, and um...I guess I should be going now. I'll talk to you later, when it's a better time, all right?"

"Wait," he said. "Here, why don't you sit down. We may as well talk now. Food can wait."

She glanced at his rather wan complexion and frowned. "You'd better eat something."

"I'm afraid I don't have much of an appetite at the moment, but I appreciate your concern." He smiled at her, but Hermione thought that he looked sad and weary.

"All right, I'll sit down." Hermione lowered herself carefully into the chair next to his bed. "What is it you wanted to talk to me about?"

"I want to talk about..." He sighed, and began again, "I don't know where to start, except to say that I'm so very, very sorry for what happened. I was careless—anyone could tell me that. Not that I haven't made mistakes before, but this one was so foolish...and to hurt you, of all people, Hermione..."

"Don't say that; it's my fault!" Hermione burst out. "I was so stupid...I couldn't sleep, so I got up and went to your office without permission. I know I shouldn't have done that, but I just meant to get _Hogwarts: A History _because I'd left mine at school and I knew that you had a copy, and then I heard this noise and I couldn't just leave if there was something wrong, I mean, if you were hurt or something, but I wasn't thinking..." She was wringing her hands now and she looked at him desperately. "Please don't blame yourself, Remus, it's all my fault."

"Hermione. _Hermione,_" he said, leaning forward so that he looked straight into her eyes, "don't do this to yourself, please. I'm the adult here, _I'm_ the one who was responsible in this situation, and I failed. And if only I had to live with this mistake, it wouldn't be so bad—God knows I've made mistakes before, and I regret them, but one has to move on—but to know that you have to live with this for the rest of your life..."

His words trailed off and he just sat there, _looking_ at her, and Hermione ached for him. She knew what she wanted then—she wanted to take away his pain, but she didn't know how. Words stuck in her throat, and she found herself saying, "Here, you should eat something. You need to keep your strength up." in a false, strained voice that sounded foreign to her ears. She rolled up her sleeves and busied herself about the room, fluffing up pillows, spreading out a napkin, and fussing with the tray of food, anything so she didn't have to look Remus in the eye. Hermione set the tray down next to him and would have continued in her flurry of nervous activity if he hadn't reached out and grabbed her wrist right then.

She couldn't suppress a wince and a small gasp of pain. His eyes went instantly to the spot where his fingers had gripped and he pulled her sleeve up to look; Hermione saw him stiffen and draw back at the sight of the red welts and scrapes.

He looked at her intently. "It was me, wasn't it."

""I—well, yes, but it's nothing really, just a scratch."

"Minerva, Albus, Severus—none of them mentioned this to me. Did I hurt you badly?"

"No. No, I'm fine."

He reached out, but hesitated before he actually touched her. "I would never intend to hurt you, Hermione. I'm so sorry. "

"It's all right, really. It's not that bad."

He sighed and continued to stare off at some place beyond her, his fingers still hovering over her skin. "I can't even remember doing it, you know. Something just comes over me, and everything I know is gone. I can't control myself any longer. I turn into this beast, this monster... I would never hurt you Hermione. You know I would rather die than hurt you."

"I know, Remus. It's not your fault." Hermione was beginning to feel slightly embarrassed now. "I—I think I'm beginning to be able to imagine how you feel. I know you wouldn't do it on purpose, so let's forget it now, please. It's not a big deal. I'll heal and get over this."

"I want to see."

Hermione stared at him, uncomprehending. "See what?"

"I want to see for myself what I did to you."

"What?—Are you sure?"

He nodded. "I can't explain...I just need to know."

"All—all right." Hermione turned away from him, facing the draped window. She unbuttoned the front of her blouse and slipped the shirt slowly off her shoulders. Behind her, she heard him inhale as he saw the crosshatching of claw marks beginning at her shoulder and stretching across her back.. Hermione felt herself blush as the thought _"you're undressing for your former teacher!"_ crossed her mind, followed quickly by a little voice that said, _"The one you've fancied since third year..."_

"Turn around," Lupin said softly. "Let me see you."

She did as he said and turned to face him, noting how his eyes widened as he saw how the cuts continued on to her stomach and chest. As if something was drawing her toward him, she walked forward until she stood at the edge of the bed. Lupin put his hand out and traced the red lines, beginning at her stomach and gliding slowly upward. His hand was very close to her left breast when he froze.

"I did this," he whispered. "I did this to you."

Hermione struggled to find words to say, but instead she realized how very close their faces were. She put a finger to his lips and said, "Sssh." Without conscious or rational thought, she bent her head closer and their lips met. It was hardly a kiss, just the soft brushing together of their mouths, but it was as if a jolt of electricity shot from his lips to hers, and she instantly wanted _more_. Lupin withdrew quickly and turned away from her, and Hermione stood there before him, not knowing what to do, or what she had just done.

He spoke first. "I apologize. That should never have happened."

"Stop apologizing. I did it, not you."

"I was behaving inappropriately. I shouldn't have allowed anything like this to happen."

"But I—" Hermione knew what she felt now: shame, bitter and overwhelming. _What were you thinking? You can't, you shouldn't—Hermione Granger would never do anything like that!_ But at the same time she suddenly saw what she wanted, and it was so beautifully simple she felt relief. Remus was still talking, but it hardly mattered to her what he was saying, for she knew what she had to do. She had to try, she couldn't let something this important to her be swept aside and dismissed as some kind of mistake.

"...Hermione, you're a very attractive young woman, but I can't do this."

She shook her head at this as if she were simply shaking these words away. "Why? You're not my teacher anymore and you haven't been for years! I don't care about the age difference, honestly. There are plenty of couples with an age gap—my parents for example, my father is seven years older than my mother. It happens all the time. "

"I know that, but... a woman like you and a man like me...it doesn't look good." He sensed she wanted to speak, but he silenced her with a sharp look in his eyes, and continued to talk in that same soft, reasonable voice. "Right now you might not think anything of it, but you would later. I know right now the whole world is strange and out of control, but it won't be like this forever. You're young; you don't really want an old man like me. You might think you do, but it could never work."

Remus squeezed her hand, and Hermione felt then like he was squeezing her heart. _No, no, no, I can't give up so easily. I can't!_

"You're not old, Remus. I told you the age thing doesn't matter to me, and I mean it."

"No Hermione, I'm not going to take advantage of you. I'm sure it's been a long day, and you've been unwell, you're probably tired. Go to bed and forget this ever happened. Please."

"You're _not_ taking advantage of me. If anything, I'm taking advantage of you. Iwant this. I want _you_."

"You don't know what you're doing."

"But I want to find out," Hermione said. Strange how bold she felt right now, how easy it was to say these things. "Is it so terrible that I want you to kiss me right now?"

"Well...I...I can't say." He laughed then, and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. "Ah, Hermione, I should know better than to try and argue with you. You're too stubborn for me. I don't know what to tell you now, I think I've run out of arguments."

"Would you just kiss me then before you lose the nerve?" Hermione asked, and then she waited, heart pounding, palms sweating, her mind chanting _Please do it, please do it, please please please...don't just leave me standing here!_

Her fears were unfounded; Remus complied then, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her tenderly, as if at any moment she might vanish. The two of them were still laughing slightly, but Hermione quieted as he undid the hook on her bra and slipped it off, cupping her breasts in his hand. She stood before him, feeling the cool air on her skin as he kissed the partially healed cuts that crisscrossed her flesh. _This_ the creature inside her liked, and the more she gave into these new feelings of pleasure, the more she relinquished her careful hold on it.

She grabbed onto the back of Remus' neck and clung to him, wanting to close all the distance between their bodies. Hermione crawled into the bed and lowered herself on top of him. He was kissing her more intensely now, and his hands slid around her and gripped her back. She slipped naturally into his lap, and surprised herself a little by grinding against him. She found that the less she thought about what she was doing, the easier it was to act, and the more she acted, the more she forgot that she was supposed to be Hermione Granger: Good Girl Extraordinaire, who most certainly never would find herself in a situation like this.

Though Hermione may have had her doubts, her body held no such reservations. For once, the voice in her mind that seemed to constantly narrate her entire life was incapable of conveying what was happening to her. It was all feeling; all body language of a sort she hadn't known existed. Now he was touching her, but that couldn't truly express how his touch seemed so gentle and yet so insistent at the same time, the way her skin seemed to come alive when he caressed it, the way he was kissing at her neck and then biting just enough at the hollow of her throat.... He held her tightly by the hips and in some movement too quick and subtle for Hermione to detect, he turned their bodies over, and now she lay beneath his weight. She felt almost limp with this new desire, unable to do anything but lie there and greedily touch him back, watching him as he moved over her body with his hands and his lips. She moaned when he moaned and the sound of the little growls he made in the bottom of his throat caused her to sigh and dig into the bed with her fingers and toes.

He was slipping his clothes off now and Hermione lay back on the bad and watched silently. Her pulse was thrumming in her ears and she felt a slight pang of nerves at the thought of what she was about to do. Remus gently pulled the sheet from her and kissed her, his hands finding their way down to her hips and grabbing the elastic waistband of her underwear. It all seemed to come together in a single moment. The tip of one thumb slid under, his lips were pressed lightly against her closed eyelids, her fingers were tangled in his hair and she was gasping for breath and—there was a gigantic crash from the other side of the room.

Hermione's eyes flew open. Oh _no._


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Thanks to WendyNat and Alison for beta'ing, and to everyone who helped out by talking plot with me (especially the great Ms. Wusti) and helping to give inspiration.

I'm sorry that it has taken me so long to write this chapter. I've gone through some of the busiest months of my life, suffered a serious lack of writing inspiration, and written several versions of this chapter. It was important for me to get this right, as future plot points hinged on it. After a good bit of outlining and brainstorming, I think I am back in business. I'd like to thank all my readers for waiting patiently, and I hope that you enjoy this next installment.

* * *

"Oh my God!"

Tonks gave a little squeak and somehow proceeded to trip, either over her own feet or the door, and sprawl on the floor.

"I—terribly sorry—wrong room?"

Well, that did it. The moment was officially dead, gone, and strung up by the heels, and Hermione was left wondering what on earth she had been doing.

All right, she knew very well what she had been doing. It was the _why_ part that confused her.

And maybe she should have picked a different where and when. _Or at least next time lock the door. Very clever of you. _

_For some reason, I don't think this is setting a very good tone for any future sex life I happen to have. Assuming that I'm not traumatized for life._

_All right, enough internal melodrama. Keep to the subject at hand. _She glanced down at herself dispassionately, noticing the sheet she had pulled up to half-cover her breasts _—protecting your modesty? It's a little late for that, Granger, don't you think? _

Mercifully, Tonks had managed to get to her feet and leave—closing the door and fleeing, most likely. _How embarrassing for her_, Hermione thought numbly. _Why couldn't she have been minding her own business? What was she doing just walking into Remus' room anyway?_

_What, are you jealous now Hermione? Jealous that Tonks seems to just casually walk into his bedroom?_

_Well, you did the same thing, didn't you? Twice you've gone into his room uninvited, and neither time seemed to come out very well for you, did it?_

She turned to look at Remus, steeling herself for the expression on his face. Would he be disgusted with her? Not angry—no, not him, not now, not with her. Hermione could imagine exactly how this would go: he would blame himself and she would blame herself and it would be a tangle of guilt with no end in sight. And she just couldn't handle the thought right now.

He looked, well, as if he had been caught having a too-private moment with a student—a former student, she corrected herself quickly. Horrified, ashamed, guilty.

_Of course he's horrified. He just got caught in bed—in bed!—with one of his former students. How do you think you would feel? _

She sat up, feeling her hair spill down wild and frizzy and completely out of control around her shoulders. Hermione could feel Remus draw away from her; she could sense the warmth and security of his body leaving her. The feeling of separation hit with the force of a slap on the face. Only moments before, she had felt so close to him, closer than she had ever let anyone else get to her. Now, she curled inward defensively, hunching her shoulders as if this would hide her breasts, allowing her hair to fall forward over her face and provide a kind of shield for her.

"Hermione," she heard Remus say softly, and she dimly realized that he was tucking the blanket around her, wrapping her up as if she were a small child being put into bed.

Suddenly she did not want him to see her like this, naked and flushed and still breathing harshly. "I think I should go now," she said quickly. Hermione disentangled herself from the covers and moved away from Remus, not noticing the sheets that fell to the floor. Without looking, she grabbed at her pile of clothes off the floor and began to pull them on, jamming her limbs into the sleeves and legs.

Remus hadn't said anything, but he wrapped one of the bed sheets around his waist and got up to help her. "Your shirt's on inside out," he said gently, moving behind her and helping her take off her blouse. He slipped it off her shoulders, turning it right-side out with capable hands. All the while, Hermione stood there shaking, her arms broken out in goose bumps crossed across her chest. When she didn't move to help him, he extended her arms himself, unfolding them and guiding them into the sleeves of her shirt.

Hermione looked up into his face. She was breathing in short, quick gulps of air—she could recognize the first signs of hyperventilation. God, she knew she was acting like a panicky child, and undermining everything she wanted him to believe about her. Why now, of all times, was she suddenly regressing, becoming more immature by the minute? She wanted to get away now, before she just humiliated herself further.

"Slow down." He finished re-buttoning her shirt and tucked the tags in. "_Breathe_, Hermione." Still seeming patient—_how does he do it?—_he gripped her shoulders, smoothing her hair back and tucking it behind her ear.

Remus pulled her against him, and she stopped struggling and leaned against his chest. Even now, as off-kilter as she felt, there was something fundamentally soothing about his presence. For a brief moment, she wondered what it would be like if she could stay there without worrying about being found out, without knowing that she had to leave soon, but she pushed the thought down. She knew where impulses like that could lead her, and it wasn't down the hall to her bedroom where she belonged.

"Don't worry," he said softly in her ear, one hand coming up to stroke her hair.

_Like a child. He's treating me like a child_. "I'm not worried," Hermione insisted.

He was silent, and Hermione knew he could tell she was bluffing. "You know if anyone's to be held responsible…if there's any trouble at all—"

"Don't say it." _I really can't bear it if you're such a martyr right now. How can you be so good?_

"You don't need to worry. I'll look after things. All right?" Cupping Hermione's chin in the palm of his hand, he brought her face up so that they were eye to eye. "Hermione…"

"I—I'm sorry. I think I should go now." She backed out of his arms, and before she let herself start to intellectualize the situation and remind herself that running away was seldom the right thing to do, Hermione left.

She wanted to run down the hall, not walk deliberately, stopping to make sure that the door didn't slam shut behind her. But there was no way to do that without attracting attention—it was bad enough Tonks knew; what if the rest of the household wondered what Hermione was doing crashing around upstairs? So she walked down the hall at a controlled pace until she reached her room.

Once inside her room, she shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, the first real wave of shock hitting her. It was a sharp relief to be in her own space again, to be alone, but even then she felt inescapably rattled.

Hermione walked rather unsteadily over to her bureau and ran her fingers over the empty, chipped porcelain basin, clumsily summoning water. She splashed the water on her face and on her overheated skin, not caring when it ran up her sleeves and down her collar, chilling her. After wiping her hands off on the rather musty smelling towel, she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair still tousled like she had just gotten out of bed—well, she just had—and there was a hint of a bite-mark beginning to appear at the bottom of her throat. Digging through her bag, Hermione found her hairbrush and began trying to untangle her curls. She jerked the brush through her hair so roughly that tears sprang to her eyes when she hit a snarl. Finally, when her scalp was stinging from the harsh treatment, she put the brush aside.

She sat down on the narrow bed and tucked her feet under her, rocking back and forth in a monotonous movement. It was the kind of thing she used to do when she first arrived at Hogwarts and had trouble sleeping, when she still woke in the middle of the night and missed home terribly. In those days, she still hadn't been sure of this magical world that she found herself living in, but not belonging to.

Oh, she had thought she would adjust, given time, and then what had happened? The Chamber of Secrets had been opened, and suddenly Muggleborns were a target. And now Voldemort was back, and how on earth could she have ever thought she would fit in eventually? Oh no, she would always be different. No matter how hard she tried or how clever and skilled and good a witch she was, it would never be enough. She couldn't measure up.

Her thoughts raced on along this track, speeding and spinning around nearly faster than she could follow. What was she even doing in the Wizarding World? Maybe she should have stayed home and learned practical things; things that were actually useful in the real world, not spells and magic, things that should belong in fairy tales. Why wasn't she doing real things, the kind of things she could explain to a person on the tube without them thinking she belonged in a mental institution?

Of course she didn't want to leave the Wizarding World; it was too late for an alternative now anyway. Besides, she was _good_ at magic—the brightest witch of her age, she repeated to herself. She did belong here; she had to, because she certainly didn't belong anywhere else. But what she had done now—it could only make her position more precarious if people found out.

What if Tonks told? Hermione imagined Dumbledore and McGonagall peering inquisitively at her, saying, "No, it couldn't be! Our Miss Granger would never carry on inappropriate relations with older men!" Then maybe they would question her about it or examine her memories, and they would know the truth… Maybe they would get it all wrong and accuse Remus of preying on her and he would be in such trouble he was thrown out of the Order of the Phoenix in disgrace, and had no place to live then and everyone in the Wizarding World would be against him more than ever and he would have no chance for a job…

And of course other people would find out; gossip would always out eventually. Harry would wonder what on earth she had been doing with his father's friend, and Ron would probably be angry and jealous.

And Snape would sneer at her and say, "I expected no more from a Mudblood like you."

Her memory summoned up those horrible words: "I see no difference."

McGonagall must have been utterly and totally mistaken. Their conversation seemed as if it had taken place ages ago, when Hermione still believed herself somewhat capable of behaving capably and maturely.

It wasn't all going to look better in the morning, but maybe by then she would be able to at least feel she could look someone in the eye. Hmm…not Remus. Not Tonks. Not Minerva, not Snape for certain… _Don't feel like talking to Ron or Harry. Doubt Dumbledore will be available for a chat, not that I have anything to say to him… _She sighed.

She still felt a bit queasy, though, try as she might to ignore it, the rest of her body was still feeling hot and frustrated… Why couldn't she just be done with such feelings, why did she still wish that she was back in the room with Remus, that at the very least he was holding her like he had earlier, his voice soft and soothing….

God, she felt guilty, thinking of the look on Remus' face when he offered to take the blame…

Blame! It's your fault and he must see it, he's just trying to protect you and you don't deserve it. Did you realize how much trouble you could get him into? Did you? No, of course not. Too busy with other thoughts, hmm? Just think of how you used to look down on girls who did things like that, who got into trouble. Remember how you sneered at them and thought they must be stupid? Remember how self-righteous and smug you felt? Always sure that you were different, better than they were. Well, you're not. You're not different at all, Hermione Granger. 

Enough thinking for one night. Even though it was barely evening yet, Hermione pulled the covers up over her head and willed herself to go to sleep.

* * *

_Don't want to get up._

There was an insistent rat-tat-tatting at her door that did not go away, even when Hermione put her pillow over her ear and groaned for whomever it was to stop.

"But Hermione…"

Ron.

"Too bloody early! It's still dark out, come back later."

"Her_mi_one, I want to talk to you."

Deciding that he wasn't going to leave any time soon, Hermione got up to answer the door. She opened it partway and looked at Ron through the crack. Even if she hadn't recognized his voice, she would have known him then by the flash of red hair that so stood out in the dim light.

"Yes? What do you want to talk about?" she asked.

Ron stuck his foot in the door and nudged the space open wider, leaning in toward Hermione. "We're decorating the Christmas tree. Don't you want to come down and help us?"

"You woke me up for that?"

"Well…no. I wanted to talk to you last night, but you never came down for supper."

"I went to bed early." She stepped back, letting the door open with her.

Ron looked at her and said, "Did you sleep in your clothes last night?"

She glanced down and saw her rumpled clothing. "Oh. I guess I did."

"What's wrong, Hermione?"

_It must be pretty obvious if he notices._ She shook her head. "It's nothing, Ron. I'm just tired after the…accident."

He winced, and she saw him take a small step backward.

"I'm not contagious, you know. Not unless I bite you."

His cheeks went rather red, and he looked down at his feet "I know that. I didn't mean anything. I came here to say sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"I—the time with Harry. I should have said something. I shouldn't have let him pick on you that way."

"It doesn't matter, Ron."

_No, Ron, standing up for friends doesn't matter at all. Really._

I already knew that you would pick Harry over me, just like usual. I simply didn't feel like having it rubbed in my face right then and there, but then I wouldn't expect you to pick up on that either.

She waited.

He's not going to go away, is he?

Ron just continued to stand there, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "I know it does, or you wouldn't be upset, would you?"

"Who said I'm upset?" she snapped.

"I don't want you to be mad at me," he said, looking at her with pleading eyes. "Really, I'm sorry."

He's sincere. He means well. It really would be cruel to shut him out right now.

She couldn't reject him callously, not then. He was apologize, and she knew that wasn't easy for him.

"All right, I'll be down in a little bit. I'll just need to get dressed…well, change my clothes anyway."

"Okay."

She started to close the door, but she stopped when he said once more, softly, "Please don't be angry like that again. It's—not good when we can't get along like that."

"I know, Ron."

* * *

That morning Dumbledore showed himself into Snape's makeshift office and took a seat. Snape sat at his desk, staring blearily at the papers, open books, and marked articles spread out in front of him.

"Tell me you didn't stay up all night, Severus."

Snape avoided the urge to rub his eyes and yawn. "I didn't. I got a few hours of sleep this morning, between three and six."

Dumbledore made a slight sound of disapproval, but said nothing.

"I know, I should be taking better care of myself."

"I didn't come here to reprimand you, though I'm sure you know some of us are worried…"

"Yes, I had a delightful conversation with Minerva the other day. You know, she wasn't given the nickname 'Meddling Minerva' for nothing…"

A slight smile crossed Dumbledore's lips, and he said, "If I remember correctly, you were the one who started that name when you were in school."

"Well, she certainly took a keen interest in what us Slytherins were up to," Snape said sharply, not adding the thought that this statement implied—that Minerva had had a strictly hands-off policy when it came to dealing with a certain quartet of Gryffindors.

"Just because things were a certain way in the past doesn't mean she can't take an interest in your well-being now."

"Of course not, Headmaster."

Well-being indeed.

Keeping late hours wasn't anything unusual for Snape—for most of his educational career he had considered his insomnia a blessing, giving him hours of productivity that others wasted on sleep, dreams, lovers' trysts—but he resented Lupin being the cause of his all night stint of studying.

Moreover, he resented Dumbledore asking him to spend time on Lupin's problems when he could have been spending time on the issue with Hermione. That was where the real challenge lay, where the real work was ahead of him…and where his true interest lay.

Perhaps it was best not to follow that train of thought.

Snape supposed that Dumbledore knew well enough what he thought of Lupin, but there was nothing to be said about that. He and Lupin tolerated each other and, when possible, avoided any mention of the past. That was enough of an agreement for Snape.

He finished shuffling papers, a selfish attempt to delay the conversation that was to come. "As usual, I seem to be the bearer of ill news."

"I suppose it's to be expected under the present circumstances." Dumbledore sighed. "We try for the students' sake when possible, but these are not light times…as much as the Ministry would like us to believe differently."

"Well, you already know what I think of those reactionary idiots in power."

"All too well."

"'Death Eater situation under control', 'Hogwarts Headmaster paranoid, militant objector to current government handling of—"

Dumbledore's response was bemused, but firm. "I appreciate your protective impulses, Severus, but we're not here to talk about the editorial page of _The Daily Prophet._"

"Yes, I haven't forgotten our latest little disaster on hand. I can tell you, Lupin's problem is nothing new—I've seen this before. It appears he's developing an immunity to Wolfsbane, just as I predicted," Snape said, with a bitter satisfaction.

"And our options?"

"At the moment? Well, we could increase the dosage, but that's merely a patch for the temporary problem, not any kind of solution."

"How long will that last?"

"Hard to say. It _will_ buy us time, but how much varies greatly. It depends on individual factors—metabolism, and a half dozen other things. Far too great a range to give us a good estimate."

"And that means?"

Snape may not have liked Lupin, but he was frustrated at what he saw as the one of the greater failings of Potions. He hated not having a solution, and it was uncomfortable for him to have to tell Dumbledore that there was nothing he could do, that he didn't even know what kind of scenario he was working with.

"Could be six months, could be six years."

"Then there's hope?"

"If you want to look at it that way, I suppose you could say so."

"Perhaps an answer will be found—a new potion, say."

"Doubtful. Since Wolfsbane was patented in its trial form in the early 1980s, research in that field has come to a grinding halt. There's been more money spent on marketing in the last ten years than on research."

"So nothing we can count on." Dumbledore leaned back in the chair, his fingers steepled against his chin and closed his eyes.

Snape felt vaguely responsible for his negative answer, but it was only the truth. "No."

"We'll have to talk to him then. Tell him."

"He's not a stupid man," Snape said, rather grudgingly. "I'm sure he's wondered. He has the right to a straight answer."

"Yes, though I'd prefer it if such conversations were not had before breakfast." Dumbledore rose to his feet. "Thank you, Severus, for working on this at such short notice. I know it's not much of a vacation for you."

"Since when have I had 'much of a vacation'?"

"I know that you've been busy, and I'm sorry to have to give you extra work now."

"Don't worry, it's not as if my vacation has been truly interrupted—you didn't have to tear me away from the beaches of Tahiti."

"Perhaps another time…who knows, the beaches of Tahiti might do you some good."

Dumbledore smiled, and Snape couldn't help but imagine him at the beach, sprawling out on a recliner with his long white beard stretched out before him. That would be almost worth seeing.

"A likely story. I'd be bored stiff, and you know it."

"Have you ever heard that burying yourself in your work so much isn't entirely healthy?"

"I'll remember that sentiment at a time when everyone isn't queuing up at my door, needing something from me _right now_ and it's a matter of life or death."

Snape tucked the papers neatly back inside their files, double-checking the cross-references until he was satisfied.

"Do you get any satisfaction at all from thinking of how many of those life or death matters you've settled for us?"

The half-joking tone was gone, and Snape looked away sharply.

"As you recall, there have been plenty of those matters that I settled less than honorably."

"That doesn't diminish the value of what you have accomplished for us now."

"Nor does it undo what I did in the past."

"Is it fair to expect it to?"

"I—" Snape rubbed his forehead, his weariness beginning to catch up with him. "I have nothing to say to that, except it looks like I'm going to be delving into my supply of headache curatives yet again."

"Come down and have some breakfast, Severus." Before he left, Dumbledore looked back to add, "You know what the Muggles say—it's the most important meal of the day."

"Shows what they know," he grumbled. "And I can't see how having to be around other people will improve my mood much."

How on earth he can be so blasted cheerful right now… 

_And you left Voldemort to serve this man. Ever regret it?_

_Yet he puts up with you, misanthropic bastard you, without fail. Even is good-humored about it—usually at your expense._

_Far more than you deserve, mmm?_

He went downstairs.

* * *

Hermione sat in what passed for a breakfast nook in the house, meditatively eating her breakfast cereal.

Ron had been happy to see her, but Harry hadn't said anything to her yet, other than giving her a quick nod hello. The two of them were in the other room, decorating the Christmas tree. Dumbledore and McGonagall had joined them, and Hermione could hear the sound of their laughter as they kept themselves busy transfiguring ornaments.

Christmas had lost the shiny glow it had when she was a child, which was to be expected. When she was younger, the thought that one day Christmas wouldn't seem so special had been upsetting, but now she simply didn't care at all. It was nice that Ron could still get excited, she reminded herself, and it was a good thing if they could take Harry's mind off his troubles.

The preparations for the holidays weren't enough to divert her attention, though. Hermione couldn't help but dwell on what had happened the evening before, as well as on something new.

As she was coming downstairs that morning, she had overheard a snatch of conversation coming from Remus' room. She recognized Tonks' voice, sounding angry but a bit wobbly.

"Was it just because of Sirius? Was it just what I could do for you?"

"No, Tonks, it wasn't like that…not at all."

Hermione had felt the urge to stop and listen for more, but it wasn't worth the risk of being caught. As much as she hated not knowing what they were talking about (and as much as she wondered if it had anything to do with recent events involving her), she had continued on and crept down the stairs as quietly as she could.

Still…she wondered and speculated, probably fruitlessly. What had they been talking about, and what did Sirius have to do with any of it?

"Hermione! Come in here!"

"Just a second, Ron."

Hermione got up to put her bowl in the sink, not bothering to cast a cleaning spell like she usually would have done.

"Hermione?"

"I'm coming!"

He was waiting for her in the doorway, and when she got within arms reach of him, he caught her around the waist and pulled her against him.

"What's this about?" she asked, not sure if she was amused or annoyed.

"Look up," he said.

"What?"

He pointed upwards, and Hermione's eyes followed the direction of his finger.

"Oh…"

"See, mistletoe!"

She was looking up, just the right angle for him to be putting his hand under her chin and moving in to…_oh joy_…kiss her.

He could probably taste the cereal she had just eaten, the way she could still taste traces on his lips of the toast and marmalade he had eaten this morning. Ron wasn't a bad kisser, she thought numbly—not too dry or too wet, not too overeager or too weak and gummy-lipped…but he wasn't Remus. He was Ron, and that was the problem.

Now he was wrapping his arms around her and almost _crushing_ her against him, or so it felt. Hermione broke the kiss and pushed at his arms. "Not so tight, Ron! I've still got bruised ribs."

He left go of her quickly, his face flushing. "Sorry, Hermione."

"You can stop worrying, Mr. Weasley. I don't think Miss Granger has suffered any permanent harm from your…eager attention."

Oh, positively glorious. How nice to see you too, Professor Snape. Up to your usual standards, I see, picking on anyone who can't stand up to you.

Ron was examining the floor carefully, his ears even more red than before, and Hermione reached out to rub his arm gently. She looked straight at Snape, challenging him to look her in the eyes.

Next time, pick on someone who'll fight back.

Snape did not look at her though. Dumbledore stepped in, saying, "Oh, I thought it might be fun to enhance the holiday spirit with a bit of decoration. Harmless fun, but that's enough now." He waved his wand, and the sprig of mistletoe reverted to its former incarnation as a strand of unraveling red yarn.

Remus and Tonks must have come downstairs as well, just in time to see Ron's little public display of affection. Hermione noticed Remus looking away from her, his cheeks slightly flushed. Tonks looked thoughtfully at Hermione, then turned and went into the kitchen.

By now, Hermione had stepped away from Ron and moved into safer territory, in between Professor McGonagall and the Christmas tree. She made herself busy straightening out the ornaments on the tree, making sure the distance between them was even and they were turned forward.

The little crowd that had gathered at that awkward moment now dispersed. Harry and Ron were distracted from their decorating by a plate of cookies that Mad-Eye Moody brought out, and Hermione was grateful—if their mouths were full of food, they were less likely to talk to her or ask any questions she didn't want to answer. Remus and Tonks seemed to be continuing their quiet conversation in the breakfast nook, and Dumbledore had gone into the study to take care of some business. Snape had vanished, probably scared away by any signs of the coming holiday, thought Hermione.

She was still kneeling at the base of the tree, tugging at the tree skirt, when Dumbledore came out from the backroom.

"What is it, Albus?" asked Professor McGonagall, rising from the chair she had been curled up in (rather catlike of her, Hermione noted).

"I'm not sure yet." His face was grave. "I've just received a brief message from one of my contacts in the Ministry. He's not entirely sure what's going on, and he says not to panic—though it seems that's more or less what they're doing there. All they have to go on is a brief message that got through, saying 'Security at Azkaban Prison has been compromised. The Ministry is under attack.'"

Ministry…Azkaban…._Fudge. _Something jogged Hermione's memory…

The article in The Daily Prophet.

"In an attempt to reassure the Wizarding World of its safety, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge will be giving a speech and press conference on the grounds of Azkaban prison. Though he has agreed to discuss the capture of…"

"That's it, today was the day that Fudge was giving his speech at Azkaban."


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Thanks to **wendynat** for beta'ing.

Yes, it's been another very long break between chapters, and I'm sorry. This time I promise that the next chapters will be forthcoming much sooner...they're already in process and I have a good dose of HBP panic giving me a kick in the pants to get it done. Thank you for still reading, and I would love to hear what you think of it.

* * *

"_That's it, today was the day that Fudge was giving his speech at Azkaban."_

"Very good, Miss Granger."

Despite the snide comment, Hermione's eyes did not flick to Snape's face. Instead, her gaze was trained on Dumbledore, waiting for something. It wasn't reassurance, for she didn't really expect that anymore, but she still wanted a sign that this was real, a cue for how to act next.

Many observers might have said that they saw Dumbledore age before their eyes. Hermione felt differently—it was not that he become older looking, but that something in his essence _changed_. The demeanor of the jovial headmaster slipped from his face, and his eyes became set: grim, businesslike, turned elsewhere. He looked like a general now, not the jolly headmaster they were most used to, and Hermione felt a slight shiver of intimidation.

He rose to his feet, and she felt that some question in his mind had been decided. "I will need to be leaving now. Minerva, Severus, Remus—I'd like to have a quick word with you in the other room first."

They filed out of the sitting room, following Dumbledore into some back room. This left Harry, Hermione, and Ron with Tonks. If the Auror was annoyed at being left out of this conversation, she didn't show it, but only looked amused. "I guess I'm on kid duty now," she said. "Do you think we should play games or something to keep you lot entertained?"

So while Dumbledore and the others were making important judicial decisions and discussing whatever official matters were currently on the table, Hermione sat on the floor and played Exploding Snap. Her mind wasn't really on the game, so it was no surprise when she finished last, though she did manage to get away without any singed fingers, unlike Ron and Tonks. This was one of Fred and George's test decks, and apparently they had gone overboard on flammability--not an unusual occurrence with them.

Hermione was still sitting in a half circle in the living room with them, waiting, when Professor McGonagall finally emerged from the back room and announced, "Professor Dumbledore has left to speak with his contacts in the Ministry. He should be back in a day or two, provided all goes well."

_Provided all goes well. And what are the chances of that?_ Hermione wondered, but didn't ask. She wasn't she certain really wanted to know the odds they were facing, not when there was absolutely nothing she could to do to change them.

"Until then, he has left me in charge, and I intend to take this responsibly seriously, as I assume you would expect."

Tonks got to her feet, surreptitiously rubbing slightly ashy palms on her pants. "So what do we do now?" With her foot, she slid a small pile of cinders behind her, rubbing them further into the grimy carpet.

Professor McGonagall took in the aftermath of the Exploding Snap game in one sweep of a glance, and looked rather bemused. "Now we do all that we can: we wait." She settled down into an armchair and summoned a fire in the empty, long-unused fire grate with a flick of her wand. As they watched, she then took out a small handbag and summoned a pile of knitting easily five times its size. She sat there in the armchair as if she had no intention of ever moving, working on a tartan scarf and humming some unfamiliar tune.

In this short time, Tonks had already disappeared into the kitchen, perhaps to talk to Remus; Hermione hadn't seen him since he had gone into the study with Dumbledore. That was for the best, she supposed, as she wasn't sure that she had anything to say to him, and probably wouldn't for some time more. She was wondering if perhaps she could disappear upstairs into her room, but it seemed that even Snape couldn't slip away: he had acted as if he were about to vanish back into his cubbyhole of an office, but McGonagall caught his eye and crooked a finger. "Join us for a little while, Severus?"

Sour faced, though probably no more than was ordinary, he reluctantly joined the small crowd in the sitting room. Ron now appeared to be playing Solitaire with Exploding Snap cards while Harry watched. Harry occasionally added a comment or bit of advice--"No, Ron, I think that one should go there"--but mostly he seemed lost in some broody thought that blocked everything else out.

Hermione hated waiting like this, for some nebulous event that could be days away. And she didn't even have a book! Without something to occupy her mind, it was interminable. She chewed on her lip and counted breaths for a little while, a meditation that was in some Muggle magazine she had read the previous summer, while stranded at her parents' dental office for a day. _In and out with the breath, just let your thoughts drift through your mind like clouds in a clear blue sky_. The problem was, she simply didn't want to be alone with her mind right now.

A quick glance sideways showed that McGonagall was still enraptured by her progressing tartan scarf, while Snape now had an expression of distaste similar to Hermione's own. She guessed that he hated waiting too--then again, it could have been any other of the many things she supposed he hated as well. She rested her head in her hands, trying not to stare at him, but sheer boredom kept bringing her eyes back to his face. Scowling as usual, he looked rather menacing, but at the same time…if he didn't have such a severe expression on his face, he would certainly look younger. He wasn't really that old, only in his thirties, though she had usually thought of him as much older than that. In fact, she generally imagined that he had never been young, certainly not a small child or even her age ever.

Harry knew something more about Snape than she did, though he had said very little on that matter. Even when Hermione had pressed for details, all he had said was that the other students at Hogwarts had been cruel to him, that he'd probably had a beastly life, but he was still a nasty piece of work, no excuses there.

Nasty piece of work, indeed. But what had made him that way--and did it really matter if there were some rationalization? She was still watching him, as if she could read the answers to her questions in the lines of his face. Perhaps he could sense the force of her gaze, for Snape glanced right at her now, catching her stare and returning it with a look of something between disgust and exasperation. Her cheeks flushed and she looked away quickly, focusing on a particularly dusty corner that she had not noticed before. Someone should sweep it up, but who was around to do the cleaning anyway? She supposed Remus didn't really have time to keep up with all the housework, and living there by himself, why should he bother?

One of Ron's cards exploded abruptly, more forcefully then Hermione suspected was within the regulations of the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Ron and Harry jumped slightly, and Professor McGonagall dropped a stitch in her knitting. Snape rubbed at his temple and looked as if he would greatly like to say something, probably of the nasty and more colorful persuasion, but just managed to restrain himself. He rose to his feet more dramatically than necessary and snapped, "I'm going to get some fresh air."

"That sounds like a good idea, Severus," Professor McGonagall said. As soon as he had left the room she shot a penetrating glance at Harry and Ron.

"Oops," said Ron. "We'll try to keep it down from now on. Don't want to, erm, upset Professor Snape."

"His nerves are a bit tightly wound these days--but then, whose aren't? Just be careful and don't give him a reason to be off, hmm?" She glanced at Ron and Harry, who nodded. "Now why don't you boys go entertain yourselves somewhere else? I think it would be for the best," McGonagall said, somewhat absently, already looking back to her knitting.

"All right. C'mon, Harry."

Harry and Ron started up the stairs and Hermione went with them. When they reached the top of the banister, she turned in the direction of her own room and explained, "I think I'm going to go rest for awhile."

As soon as they nodded and continued down the hall, vanishing into their joint bedroom, Hermione glanced in the direction that Snape had gone. She had wondered if she would run into Tonks and Remus, but she hadn't heard any sign of them. Where was Snape heading? She was unfamiliar with that part of the house, and she wasn't really in the mood for a nap or extra coursework anyway. Good idea or not (and her inclination was on the side of "not"), Hermione followed him.

He had entered a little crooked corridor with a steeply slanted ceiling, a way she had never thought of taking before. It didn't seem to lead anyway in particular, but she went after him anyway. The ceiling was low enough that it seemed oppressive to her, and she guessed that Snape would have had to duck. Boards creaked underfoot and Hermione glanced nervously around, at several closed doors and a ladder that folded down from the ceiling and led up to some attic. She half expected Snape, or someone or something worse, to jump out at her from behind one of these doors, but the corridor seemed to be fully deserted.

She went around a corner and saw that the hallway led to a door that, until very recently, must have been boarded up. Someone had pried off the old boards, though there were still fragments and splinters left, and crooked, rusty nails protruding wickedly at angles. The door was still partially ajar and light flowed in through the gaps, illuminating streams of dust motes in the air. Sniffling slightly now from the dust and mildew, Hermione thought of turning around and heading back, until she heard the tell-tale sound of footsteps ahead of her.

A few paces down the hall, the door opened into a small balcony, only partially covered by the roof. She saw Snape from beyond, looking out without seeming to notice her. The balcony was rickety: wood dark with damp patches that had had years to grow, surrounded by wrought-iron railings that had begun to rust and bend outward. In Hermione's view, they had not been pleasant to begin with, decorated with flourishes of metal that curved to end in gaping-mouthed mythical creatures surrounded by patterns of thorns and blades. The entire deck hardly looked as if it would be able to bear human weight, but Snape appeared to be safe enough. As she watched, he ventured out onto the middle without any apparent concern or hesitation.

Still she hesitated in the doorway, not sure what she had intended to do once she was there. When she shifted slightly, the ground gave a definitive creak, and he looked back over his shoulder. Now he knew she was there, no doubt about that. "Are you following me, Miss Granger?"

Hermione's heart gave a sudden jump, and she found herself flustered and stumbling over her words once again. "No, it's just…I'd never seen this part of the house before, and I was…curious."

"Curiosity could very well be your fatal flaw, couldn't it?" Snape's mouth curved into a wry semblance of a smile, and she thought that he would very much like it if she possessed a fatal flaw.

Her tongue flicked over dry lips as she tried to think of a response. "Isn't knowledge something worth having, Professor?"

"Hmph." He snorted, and looked back out over the balcony, out onto dead lawns and the silent back doors and windows of row houses. It was a dreary, snowless winter day, and everything alive seemed to be shut up inside. Clogged drains filled the streets with water, and all the houses in the neighborhood could have used some repairs: new roofs, front steps, windows. Snape drummed his fingers on the balcony railing and spoke without looking at her. "You have no idea how many people have used that as a rationale before you--or how many would have been far better off had they never been intrigued by that one book, one idea, that one puzzle that captured their mind and wouldn't let go of them…"

Hermione leaned against the door frame, watching him. He was intent as he spoke, withdrawn, bent on some inner idea or memory that had nothing to do with the here and now, with her speaking to him. "Is this the voice of personal experience?" she asked.

As soon as she had spoken, she knew immediately she shouldn't have. With a question like that, she was pushing too far, probing too deeply into a place where she wasn't welcome. While Snape had been off philosophizing, it was like he had forgotten she was there; now he remembered and his face truly closed down. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business. I shouldn't have asked."

"No," he said flatly, though she wasn't sure which question he was answering.

"I'll leave now. I'm sorry that I intruded."

He hardly looked at her as she spoke; his face was drawn and his thoughts still seemed to be elsewhere. For some reason, she hesitated, reluctant to take those first footsteps and leave. Some part of her didn't want to go--it wanted him to tell her that she didn't need to leave, that it was all right if she was there. She wanted to find out what he would have said if she hadn't interrupted unthinkingly.

Snape leaned back against the railing, resting his elbows there as he scanned the horizon, squinting into the distance with a look of apprehension. Hermione followed his gaze, but she saw nothing worth noting, only rows of rubbish bins, hedgerows, and street lights stretching out unto a blurry vanishing point. When he realized that she hadn't left, his eyes moved to her. "What are you waiting for?"

"I--"

Her fumbling for words was abandoned before she could really begin. Suddenly Snape's hand went to his left arm, pain flashing across his face. Hermione made as if to speak again, but he held up a hand, dismissing her words. "I need to go. Now." She was in his path and he reached for her arm to move her aside, not quite a push, but enough that she stumbled and lurched forward slightly. There was a look of surprise on his face as she bumped against him, but then he moved quickly to steady her. He gripped her by the forearms and set her back on her feet, leaving Hermione wondering if she should thank him or not. She decided against it.

After this Snape looked at her uneasily and gave a little shake of his head before turning and marching down the hallway. Hermione didn't know what else to do so she followed hastily, closing the door behind her, then taking two to three quick steps for each one of his long strides. She was slightly out of breath by the time they arrived back in the sitting room, where Professor McGonagall still sat knitting.

"Minerva," Snape said curtly as he finally paused. "Summons, short notice. I don't know when I'll be back--floo Albus if you have a chance and it's safe. Tell him."

"Of course." She got to her feet, briskly vanishing her knitting needles and balls of yarn before ushering him into the study.

Hermione had hung back at the foot of the stairwell and watched this interchange. She had known enough to make an informed guess it was the Dark Mark that was calling Snape, and now she was certain. A summon from Voldemort--what did this mean? Likely Professor McGonagall's guess was as good as hers, and even if she knew more information, it was doubtful that she would share it.

She heard the door open, and before Professor McGonagall could appear, Hermione turned and hurried back up the stairs.

* * *

He knew it, he had just _known _that things would soon go from several rungs below mediocre to bad. Maybe spectacularly bad even, he was thinking by the time the Dark Mark on his arm began its familiar, painful thrumming and he rushed downstairs to face a grim Minerva.

After today's news and subsequent council with Dumbledore, Snape had been hoping that fate had let them off the hook for the rest of the day. Of course this summons from the Dark Lord could be a good thing for their side; if Dumbledore was there, he would surely have suggested that. But Dumbledore wasn't on the front lines, facing the daily fear of being exposed, of telling too much accidentally, of not playing his part well enough. He wasn't wondering what would happen if he were asked to do something truly horrific (something he'd likely done before, with little compunction)? What if the Dark Lord forced his hand, asked for too much information, forced him to truly prove his loyalty this time? Dumbledore had a war to plan: strategies to lay out, battles to prepare for, troops to deploy. And Snape was one more footman, gathering information that Dumbledore would then piece into the greater whole and use to calculate their next move. Some danger was always required; that was the price for such knowledge, but that price was his to pay. Battles were always hardest to fight when they were personal.

He shouldn't resent such activities. They were a part of paying his debt, of righting past wrongs that he had committed. Of course, he did anyway, regardless.

After the news of the probable attack on the Minister (oh, that would just _devastate_ him, indeed) and the very real possibility that more Death Eaters were on the loose again, he had known it was only a matter of time before he would be called. But the call came even more quickly than he and Dumbledore had anticipated, and it unnerved him. They had discussed a number of things in their brief meeting with the Headmaster--strategies, methods of keeping the situation calm, which members of the Order to contact right away, what circumstances should prompt them to leave Grimmauld Place and go back to Hogwarts--but not what do if Snape were summoned. He knew Dumbledore would want to know and, even if he worried, the Headmaster would be hopeful that he could glean something useful from the situation.

But now it was time to shift into action mode--the pulsing of the Dark Mark on his arm wouldn't let him forget that for long. He had rushed to tell McGonagall, a still perplexed-seeming Hermione Granger following on his heels all the way. After his quick report on the situation, McGonagall saw him into the study and closed the door behind them. She watched as he pressed his wand to his skin, murmuring a complicated series of spells. He recited the hissing, sibilant words by rote, hardly thinking of their sound or meaning any longer, but he noticed how she winced at the sound of them.

"There," he said at last, lowering his wand to his side. "He should respond in a few minutes and take me to wherever I'm going. You'll tell Dumbledore as soon as you can, and…"

"Of course, I'll send the message immediately."

"Good." Snape put his wand back in his pocket and looked around the room, trying to reassure himself that he hadn't forgotten anything important. Almost as an afterthought, he added, "You know what to do if I don't return."

"I know," she said forcefully, "but I'm hoping that I damned well won't have to put it to use."

"It's always good to be prepared, Minerva, particularly for circumstances as probable as this."

"You sound almost cheerful about the prospect of your death."

"No, I'm resigned. There's a difference. And it would be a change of pace after all--aren't you and Albus always saying I could do with one, and some rest?"

McGonagall only sighed and said, "I know you know this, but Severus?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful."

"When am I ever not careful?" he said dryly.

She looked at him and shook her head, the exasperated, somewhat buried fondness of an older sibling that surfaced under times of pressure.

The pain in his arm became stronger and the edges of his vision began to blur. The sensation of being tugged on took over and he watched McGonagall fade into a vortex of red and black. Being summoned was worse than traveling by Portkey--by the time it was finished, he was nauseated and shaken, and black and red pinpricks of light still interfered with his vision. To make matters worse, he soon recognized the general color scheme of red and black that he was looking at--it was the Malfoy's house, a small parlor on one of the floors below ground, to be specific.

"Severus!"

He heard the voice behind him and it was all he could do not to wince. Narcissa Malfoy was hardly the person he wanted to see when he was still reeling with travel sickness and not feeling at all like pretending to be thrilled at whatever machinations Voldemort had at work.

"Narcissa." He turned to her, taking the hand she offered and holding still while she darted in and pressed a quick kiss of greeting to his cheek. "I trust that the news for you has been good this time?"

Narcissa's overall appearance was as impeccable as usual, down to the tight swathes of braid and artificial loose strands in her hair and the pearls that she was wearing (how many hours did the woman spend getting ready? he wondered), but her cheeks were flushed and she appeared flustered. She nodded and leaned in to whisper, "Yes, Lucius is free. After all, I had it on Our Lord's word that he would be set free from that terrible place, thank heavens. And now he is--such a relief."

"Indeed. We were all concerned about him--and your welfare, and Draco's of course. If there's anything I can do to help…"

The appearance of emotion was quickly swept aside; the winning smile returned and the charm was turned back on. "That's very kind of you to offer, but we've managed perfectly well. Thank you."

"It's my pleasure." Snape nodded stiffly, searching for more to say, but hoping she would soon have to move on and chit-chat with new "guests". He finally settled on, "It will be good to be among old friends again."

"Yes," she smiled vaguely. "It must be dreadful for you, stuck at Hogwarts with that bumbling fool and all his blood traitor friends."

"Of course," he demurred, "but what else can I do to help the cause?"

"Naturally, we all must make sacrifices." Narcissa looked over her shoulder, fiddling with one of her earrings. "Oh, there's Mrs. Macnair! Must go, though I trust we shall talk more later, Severus?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Have a seat. Please, make yourself comfortable, make yourself at home!" She snapped her fingers a house elf who came forward immediately and bowed at Snape's feet with a tremor.

Already Narcissa's solicitous attention had faded and she was darting through the crowd, hands outstretched, to meet Mrs. Macnair and exclaim how glad she was to see her. Snape watched with a rather morbid interest. He didn't like Narcissa and he didn't trust her. He always had a hard time trusting beautiful women, and she was no exception. They said that long ago, the Blacks had used poisoned roses to kill their enemies, and it seemed fitting that Narcissa and Bellatrix should fit into such a tradition. Narcissa was sane at least, though at times Bellatrix was easier to deal with in her single-minded, unshakable focus. For Bellatrix it was all about the Dark Lord, her own personal demi-god. Narcissa's reasons were less obvious, difficult for even him to calculate.

He had always thought that she lacked imagination, only doing what she was told and following Lucius around, starry-eyed. She was a clever enough woman, even though she had never put her mind to any device of her own that he knew of--it was always her family's wishes, her husband's business, whatever was expected of a high society wife like herself. Pureblood mania suited her overall superiority complex, but she was no ideologue or idealist--though neither was Lucius, for that matter.

Snape sank into the chair that she had offered and let the house elf dash about, nervously bringing him tea and some small, dry looking biscuits that he left on the plate. As he sat there, idly stirring his tea with the minuscule silver spoon they'd provided him with, he heard someone ask Narcissa when the Dark Lord would be ready to see him.

"We're waiting for His command. He'll call us when He's ready," Narcissa said. "Tea, anyone?"

And they would wait just as long as the Dark Lord wanted. That was how it always was, a display of power, of his ultimate control. So they waited here in the Malfoy's perfect parlor with its color scheme of deep red and black maple. Narcissa played the perfect hostess, flitting about the room and making small talk while Death Eaters and some of the unaffiliated wives milled about. It was a social event with a dangerous edge, though Snape felt more comfortable with danger than with the high society aspect of it. Danger he was used to, but this kind of situation reminded him exactly why he loathed his fellow Death Eaters, how he had always felt like a low-class, two-bit guttersnipe among the rich and established of the Wizarding World. They had accepted him in name to suit their own immediate needs, but no amount of desperation or falling on hard times after the Dark Lord's fall from power had stopped them from looking down their long, aristocratic noses at him.

He remembered how they had sneered at his shabby robes in school, made fun of his used books, laughed at his forlorn, greasy appearance and utter seriousness in every subject. Once Narcissa had looked at him as if he were dirt, but now she was forced to offer respect in public; once Lucius had pretended that he didn't know Snape, but now they were "friends," if you could pretend that either of them had any. Now he taught these Death Eaters' children in school, was their Head of House, attending their Quidditch games, enforcing penalties when they broke the rules in ways he couldn't ignore. His Slytherin students whose parents kept them in the know believed he was on their side, spying for the Lord that their parents followed, and to whom they too would pledge allegiance soon. They trusted him to favor them, to protect them from Dumbledore and his interests, and he did most of the time. It wasn't a hardship for Snape really, to sneer and be menacing and impatient day in and day out, to be harsh with spoiled Gryffindor students, with pompous ones like Potter or loafers like Weasley…or ingratiating Mudbloods like Granger.

Hermione. He thought back to her earlier behavior, her unexplained decision to follow him, and then the abortive conversation. What had he said to her? _"You have no idea how many people have used that as a rationale before you--or how many would have been far better off had they never been intrigued by that one book, one idea, that one puzzle that captured their mind and wouldn't let go of them…"_ Yes, he had been talking about himself, and he supposed too that he had wanted her to ask or else he wouldn't have said that.

The girl had a clever, inquisitive mind, a thirst for knowledge and an intense desire to prove herself and be the best, and she had friends in dangerous places. It was a precarious place to be in; these days more so than ever.

Snape heard the creak of doors, and Narcissa ceased her socializing to announce, "The Dark Lord is ready now."

It was time to face his other master.


	9. Chapter 9

One by one, the Death Eaters filed down a flight of stairs and into a small waiting space at the bottom. Narcissa led the way and waited for them there, handing each a small silver ball that served as a short-lasting Portkey. When they took the key, it transported them to another, much more secure and secretive location, a room somewhere in the network of hideaways that existed beneath the Malfoy estate. It could not have been the most secret of those, however, if Narcissa knew that it existed--Lucius never told her too much on these matters, always saying that it was for her own protection. That, or he didn't trust her not to break and tell too much under pressure, though perhaps the two reasons were one and the same.

Snape soon moved to the front of the queue and was handed the same silver sphere. The light here was dim and vaguely ghoulish, casting an unflattering pall that made most skin look jaundiced, or worse, in his case. Even Narcissa's looks were eclipsed. Times had been hard for her, he surmised, harder than people would guess, though she hid it as best as she could. One wouldn't know just glancing at her, but Snape was a spy; he was supposed to be observant. Up close he noticed the purple shadows underneath her eyes, the beginnings of lines around her mouth, where the skin was losing its elasticity. Apparently lack of funding, a husband in prison, and the Ministry keeping a close watch had taken its toll even on Narcissa.

Perhaps there was a cruel edge to his observations. She had been unkind to him when he was an awkward first year, being tripped by Crabbe and Goyle Seniors in the cafeteria or finding himself the butt of pranks in the Slytherin common area. Snape hadn't known her well in school, even after he had fallen in with Lucius and his crowd, but he'd been acquainted with her well enough to have seen every snobbish tendency that Draco had charmingly inherited from her. Narcissa had given him a certain respect eventually because she was afraid of him and the spells he knew, the malice he might bear toward her. But it was dangerous to forget that her charm turned off and on as easily and frequently as she pleased. While earlier she might have been attentive and friendly, now she barely looked at Snape she placed the Portkey in his hand and stepped back.

There was a flash of light as it activated and then darkness. As was the Dark Lord's preference, the room was dimly lit; candles wavered and guttered in red glasses, casting a sickly bloody glow over walls, furniture, and occupants. This was a room that Snape had never seen before--quite non-descript and simple for the Malfoy taste, a combination of being built recently and with less than aesthetic purposes for its existence. Utility was a rare quality in this mansion, with its strange patchwork accumulation of gothic, Baroque, and Victorian decor.

Clustered in the middle of the room, a circle of Death Eaters looped around an unseen central figure. The Dark Lord. _Ready yourself…_ Snape worked to clear his mind, to let his thoughts settle and become calm. Mental barriers that he kept up permanently were there already, but he could never let them falter--intense stress, lack of sleep, strong emotions, all could affect his defenses, and this was something he could not afford.

He had given himself as much time for mental preparation as he could without appearing suspicious, but now he would have to pay his respects to the Dark Lord. The circle of Death Eaters opened to allow him into their ranks, swallowing him up amid the rustles of their cloaks. Now the Dark Lord saw that he was there; his eyes lit on Snape with a cold light, and he nodded. "Ah, my spy," he said softly, the words a sibilant hiss. With a twitch of those spidery hands he summoned Snape to his side, the inner circle within the inner circle. It was a privilege to be greeted this way--so what did the Dark Lord want?

Snape moved forward, dropping to his knees in front of the Dark Lord as quickly as he could, and waited for a command. The swishing of robes, the light, barely perceptible footfalls as the Dark Lord came forward, seemed almost unbearably loud to his ears; the other Death Eaters were all silent, with not so much as a sigh or rustle, or the scrape of footsteps on carpeting. Stopping directly in front of him, the Dark Lord crooked one long, cold finger under Snape's chin, a menacing caress. "Look at me, my servant."

Snape looked up, directly into the Dark Lord's eyes. He could feel the forced connection between them, a cold and foreign presence probing at his mind, running searching tendrils through his memories, his thoughts. Blocking one's thoughts from an accomplished Legilmens without any revealing signs was no small feat; sweat began to trickle under his collar uncomfortably. He would be exhausted that night--maybe he would even be able to fall asleep without too much trouble for once.

At last the Dark Lord was satisfied with what he found there--mundane images of the classroom, of staff meetings, bland conversations with the Headmaster-- and he broke the connection between them, leaving Snape's mind with an almost violent wrench. "Rise, Severus."

Snape climbed back to his feet with some difficulty--he wasn't as young as he used to be, was he?--and attempted to blend back in with the rest of the Death Eaters. Most of the crowd had arrived by now and was pressing in anxiously, some hoping for any shred of acknowledgement from the Dark Lord, though many more were trying as hard as they could to remain out of his notice. Those were the smart ones, in Snape's opinion, though he remembered a time when he too had craved attention, approval. He had thought if only he won the Dark Lord's favoritism, the rest of his colleagues would accept him, as if he had been one of their own from the beginning. Naturally, that wasn't how it worked. What recognition he achieved only caused resentment and jealousy among the ranks, murmurs of how someone who came from such Wizarding trash could be trusted with such a role.

Now the Dark Lord had begun to speak and the crowd fell silent, hands clasped and heads dropped respectfully as if in church. Voldemort paced back and forth in front of them, his voice starting soft and even and building as he spoke. "We have not met for a long while, my brothers and sisters. What you may have heard is true, though the blood traitors are loath to admit it: your brethren that had been imprisoned in Azkaban are free!" At the sound of the word Azkaban many shivered, but then cheered enthusiastically at the news. "We broke the Ministry's defenses, we showed them how weak they were in their self-confidence. The blood traitor whom they called Minister, that insipid fool Cornelius Fudge, is dead."

More cheering ensued, a fierce and bloody thirsty undertone that Snape emulated rather half-heartedly. Truly he had always despised Fudge, but now at his death and defeat he felt nothing, not even a little pleasure that the man was gone from his life forever.

"It was a small victory, but a great one in its importance, in its message to the rest of the Wizarding world… But never forget, now that we have won this battle, times will change…" The Dark Lord moved within the circle of Death Eaters, turning to cast his eye on each of them individually. In anticipation of his gaze, they stood up straighter, chins higher, eyes straight ahead and unwavering, even as Snape could sense the waves of fear mixed with excitement that rolled off them. "Yes, we have killed the man responsible for your shame and imprisonment…we have made the collaborator pay. But make no mistake, times will be more dangerous for us now. It is the time of trial, when we must be ever vigilant, for traitors within our ranks, for those who lack the courage to fight openly.

"My brothers, you are the inner circle…I trust you implicitly, as you know. We are sworn to one another by a most dark and ancient vow…we are each other's true family in the world, sharing a bond even stronger than that of blood. We must honor and protect each other as befits that bond… Among all your brethren, I trust you to know one another, to recognize each other by name and face. It is a privilege and a power, and I am sure that you will use this as I have intended… I trust that you will fail me no longer, that you will hold back nothing and fear no repercussion. You are my chosen, my forward guard, my true Knights of Walpurgis--yes, some of you remember that name well, do you not? Show me that my faith in you has not been misplaced!"

It was the usual speech: reassuring his followers that they were special and honored, that they should continue to follow him without question, that the end was near and now was the time to rally, to sacrifice anything that held them back. As always the Death Eaters wanted to hear that they had been the hand of justice that was sorely needed, that they were righting the wrongs the Wizarding world had done them, that soon the appropriate glory would be restored to Purebloods everywhere. It was nauseating to think that he too had once lapped this kind of thing up, listening eagerly as he imagined fifty different kinds of gruesome revenge on those blood traitors who had made his life so miserable while he was at Hogwarts. Oh, Snape did not deceive himself about this. At one time he had truly believed this rhetoric, believed that it would improve his lot in life. He had thought a little Muggle torture, a little revenge on former classmates, some "dark and ancient" ceremonies with too much alcohol and a little blood spilt to make it exciting would cure all his problems, right all the wrongs that had been done him. How naïve he had been.

Joining the Death Eaters had been the first thing he'd ever done that made his parents proud--good marks, a NEWT in Potions, even the possibility of a prestigious apprenticeship in his chosen field had not piqued his parents' interest. His father was too absorbed in drinking himself into a stupor on a daily basis to pay attention to current events or to notice exactly how this self-proclaimed Dark Lord was terrorizing their world; his mother was not in a position to be aware of anything outside her narrow and claustrophobic life. It was laziness in the first place that made Snape's father subscribe to the Dark Lord's vision, that dream of seizing power back from the hands of the greedy, grasping Mudbloods and blood traitors who were cheating the deserving of their share.

The deserving, indeed. Snape's father had spent at least two thirds of his day drunk, wildly talking at anyone who came into his shop, ranting against Muggles and Mudbloods and blood traitors, offering conspiracy theories for everything that was wrong in the Wizarding world. No wonder that his business was failing, that his family lived in a dingy flat and went to bed hungry more often than not--what money there was from the day's business had an alarming tendency to vanish at the local pub. Despite the flyers and pamphlets he waved, the declarations of Pureblood pride and venom spewed against "their kind", there was no one to blame but himself for his wretched life.

Just like there was no one else to blame for Snape's own unhappy life? The thought rose unbidden and stubbornly refused to be squelched. He'd followed this train of thought many a time before, though he knew it was futile and only put him in a foul mood. Yes, he had spent most of his life paying for mistakes--either the sins of his father and forefathers, or those idiotic errors he had made half his life ago. He was still trapped by the blunders of his eighteen year-old self; he could not escape from the person he had been then, even if he repudiated that life, even if he looked back on those years with no small amount of self-loathing.

This is why he was there, in Lucius Malfoy's hidden room, listening as the Dark Lord finished his speech. The Death Eaters were cheering now, crying out in instant agreement, their voices filled with rage over what injustice had been done to them and joy over their much awaited victory. Sweaty anticipation hung in the air, a hunger for some excitement. Excitement that smelled like blood and death and dark magic, the usual mixture. They were getting restless and the Dark Lord sensed it.

"I am sure you would like to meet with your own comrades now, those who have been separated from you while they suffered in the prison of the blood traitors…"

For the first time, Snape noticed Lucius Malfoy, sitting in a corner like the guest of honor--which he was, in a way, even though this was his own house. Of course Snape had known that he was in Azkaban, but he still hadn't managed to imagine Lucius so wraith-like, such a shadow of his former self. He was still recognizable certainly, though he had lost a great deal of weight; his face was gaunt, his cheeks sunken, his eyes hollow but lit with a glassy fire. His hair's former sheen was gone; it now hung in a dull, limp ponytail over his shoulder. Wrapped in a black cloak against some non-existent chill, he appeared like a cross between a Victorian invalid and a vampire. Narcissa fluttered about him, all wifely concern, though Snape noted the tight line of her jaw, the whiteness of her knuckles as she poured him tea, and the way she seemed to be invisible to him.

Snape weighed the advantages of saying hello, but decided against it. Most of the other Death Eaters in the crowd were pressing in on the Malfoys, paying their respects to Lucius and Narcissa with far more show than substance. Narcissa was her usual socialite self, returning their extravagant blandishments with her own insincerity, but Lucius appeared to be barely present. He inclined his head, nodded at some statements they made, but even from the other side of the room Snape could sense an underlying anger, a distaste for the entire situation.

In general the new "heroes" were the center of attention; those members of the inner circle who had been spared Azkaban all wanted to share sentiments such as, "I can't imagine what you went through" and "I only wish I had your courage." Snape did his best to blend in with the crowd, making small talk when absolutely necessary, and making a quick detour for the alcohol when it appeared. He didn't drink much--intoxication always weakened the powers of an Occlumens, which may have been why it was so often served at Death Eater gatherings--but at times, he felt it was absolutely necessary. This event, he felt whole-heartedly, fell in the necessary category.

After avoiding Bellatrix Lestrange, who had backed Dolohov's wife into a corner and was speaking rather wildly, Snape found that he had wondered over into a quiet corner, not too far from where Lucius was now speaking to the Dark Lord. It was rare that any follower should command his attention in this way, though Lucius had always had a special place of privilege. Snape was close enough to be in earshot, though far enough away that he didn't look suspicious; as long as he didn't make eye contact and kept his thoughts carefully contained, the Dark Lord likely would not suspect a thing. This could be valuable information for the Order, Snape rationalized, deciding that it was worth the risk.

The conversation sounded as if it had almost reached the end of its course, and Snape cursed mentally. If only he hadn't been waylaid getting across the room…but then their voices rose again.

"They humiliated me." This was Lucius speaking, his voice shaking with anger. "Do my fellow _brothers_ offer me help when I have need? Did they extend common courtesy to my wife? No, they did not. They offered her no aid, or no aid without certain…favors expected in return. They insulted her, they treated her as if she were a common…"

He had always thought that Narcissa had had too much pride to ask others for help, but it must have been worse than he imagined--of course, she had humbled herself to write to Andromeda, but that way no one else would know of her secret shame. To go to someone else in the Order was far riskier, socially speaking…but to have no one help her? Or to proposition her when she was desperate? Whoever had done that had been an unwise man. Lucius was not tolerant of others having an interest in his possessions.

The Dark Lord was milder than he would have been with anyone else. "Lucius, Lucius, you must have patience… You know I do not have time to divert my attention in this war. You must concentrate on the greater scheme for the time being…when victory is here, the situation will be different. There is always time for revenge when one does not have more pressing matters at hand. Do you understand?"

There was a terse silence and then, "Of course, my Lord. I understand completely."

"Good. See that it remains that way."

"As you wish it, it shall be done, my Lord," Lucius intoned dully.

"But there is a matter that interests me more than your petty concerns of today," the Dark Lord continued. "I am curious that you spoke of this house earlier, the Black family house, that has so mysteriously disappeared."

"Narcissa said it could not be found. Blatant incompetence on the part of whatever fools she hired, likely. Or perhaps they were taking advantage of her, and in that case must be dealt with." Lucius's grasp on his wand tightened, as if he were wringing the necks of these hypothetical goons who would cheat his wife.

"Perhaps…" The Dark Lord's voice trailed off. "But perhaps not. I have spoken with Wormtail on this matter and I am not entirely without my suspicions."

"Then I am certain they are for a good cause and not unfounded," Lucius said quickly.

There was a brief flash of his customary cold laughter, and the Dark Lord shook his head. "Wormtail knows little, but his information may be of some use. The house cannot be found by normal means or with any ordinary magic…it is unplottable, it has been for some time…does this surprise you, Lucius? Did you not think of this before?"

"My Lord, I was only just released from Azkaban, I have not had the time…"

The Dark Lord waved a hand, dismissing his words. "I will not punish you for lack of foresight this time. As I was saying, Wormtail's memory is not reliable all the time, but he is almost certain that Mr. Black put many spells on the house… Is this is of no interest to you, Lucius?"

"Of course it interests me, if you think it should, my Lord."

"Indeed. Lucius, your loyalty amazes me."

Lucius was silent, likely realizing that there was no easily good response to this; the Dark Lord could not be contradicted, yet to go along with his sarcasm could annoy him as well. Snape knew these games well, knew how they served as amusement. "I shall inquire into these matters, if you wish, my Lord."

"We shall speak more of this later, at a more appropriate time and place."

"Very well, my Lord." And with that, Lucius was dismissed from his master's company. Rising from his solitary chair for the first time, Lucius began to make the rounds of the room, allowing a few perfunctory greetings as he received congratulations. Snape felt new displeasure as Lucius's gaze fell squarely on him.

"So Severus, you're not free of me forever."

Snape inclined his head, giving a little smile at the Lucius's dubious sense of wit.  
"So it seems."

Lucius continued, unaware of any irony in his statement or Snape's response. "I trust that the status quo continues at Hogwarts?"

"Nothing has changed of late," Snape said. "As I'm sure you know, our esteemed Headmaster is still in residence." He injected his words with the expected scorn, like an actor reciting his lines in the hundredth performance of a play.

"And my son? How is he doing?"

"Draco exceeds expectation in Potions as always--the boy has a true talent in that field. Beyond academia, he seems to be coping…adequately. His frequent clashes with Harry Potter have drawn the Headmaster's eye more than once, however."

Lucius frowned. "I shall have a word with him. Understandable sentiments, I'm sure, but as always, his execution…" He sighed. "I cannot say what he lacked in his upbringing to make him fail so when it comes to matters of subtlety."

"The boy is young; there's still time left for him to acquire polish. With maturity, perhaps."

"If Narcissa ever stops spoiling the boy," Lucius said curtly. "The way she indulges him…she doesn't see the danger in softening him the way she does. Sometimes I don't think she sees the danger in the world at all. She still feels safe, even now, I think." His thoughts seemed to trail off, to some end that Snape didn't follow.

"Don't you think it was rather risky to hold the gathering here?" Snape said softly, hoping this wouldn't raise Lucius's ire overly much.

Lucius' eyes flared and his hands twisted on his wand. "Let them come and find me here, in my own house. If those filthy bastards were here in my home, we would give them what they deserve…"

"You're staying here then, after this?" asked Snape, as casually as he could manage.

"No, there's a family vacation house that we've had under a false name for many years. Always good to be prepared, you know. It's quite isolated and I've taken preventative measures just to be safe; I don't think the Ministry should be poking their noses about there any time soon. I just have some matters to set right here first--preparation, things to gather, some delicate matters to be dealt with, you know."

"Ah." Snape nodded. Of course he couldn't directly ask Lucius where he would be staying, but this was possibly useful information nonetheless.

"And I have to make sure that Narcissa will be able to maintain her life here. The Ministry will be around asking questions soon, I imagine."

"Yes, I imagine they will."

Lucius's eyes darted around, focusing on something at the other side of the room, and Snape was struck by how he seemed almost mad; certainly, his mind was elsewhere. After a moment, much to Snape's relief, Lucius excused himself with some mumbled statement about seeing to other business.

Snape was more or less alone after this. He got through what seemed like several interminable hours of small talk, the same reminiscing about the good old days and anticipation of the glorious times that lay ahead. Finally the Dark Lord called for a final closing session, where he gave proclamations to instill fear and remind them of the price of disloyalty. Not leaving his warnings just to talk, he dealt out a few punishments as he saw fit, and then gave them permission to leave.

Snape received his own warning and dismissal. "That is so you do not forget where your allegiance lies," the Dark Lord said and struck him with a blast of wandless magic, a bolt of pain that leapt between them. It was like a punch in the gut, leaving Snape winded.

"My allegiance is always with you, my Lord. Always." Snape bowed low before the Dark Lord's feet, his vision blurring as he was almost overcome by nausea. He rose shakily to his feet, making his way to the outer circle of followers, where he could brace himself against the wall with an arm.

Somehow he made his way back up the stairs, through two apparations, and arrived thoroughly exhausted at 12 Grimmauld Place. McGonagall was waiting for him, sitting in a chair, and she jumped up and caught him by the arm as he staggered.

"You look terrible, Severus," she said bluntly. "No color at all in your face, and you're shaking like a leaf. Let me get you something." She helped him over to the couch and insisted that he have a seat while she got him something to drink.

The something--a quick shot of whiskey--did restore some of the color to his face, even though it left him choking and sputtering "You drink that?" he said incredulously. She nodded.

After giving him a moment to catch his breath, she sat down next to him on the sofa. "So Severus, tell me, what evil and mischief are afoot in the world at this precise moment?"


End file.
